A Capacity for Love
by SwissMiss1
Summary: HBP spoilers. Set during HBP. Snape, as a Death Eater, is forced to attack Hermione. How will they deal with the consequences? Rating for situations and content. No fluff. Canon compliant. Not shippy, but mention of R/Hr. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1: Halloween, 1996

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of non-consensual sex._

**A Capacity for Forgiveness**

**Chapter 1**

**Halloween, 1996**

The Halloween feast had been more sombre than usual. The Jack-O-Lanterns' grins had seemed forced, and the tricks played by the Underclassmen half-hearted. There were many reasons for this: Katie Bell was still in hospital; there had been more reports of Death Eater attacks in the news; and Snape was, if possible, more snarky as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher than he had been as Potions master, and had put the entire student body into a funk with his moods. Anyone who paid attention to that sort of thing would have noticed that said snark was absent from dinner that evening. Along with the Headmaster and, it seemed, half of the rest of the staff. Not that it had done much to lighten the mood. There was probably only one student who took any note of it anyway, and he was already in such a poor state that even a lap dance courtesy of Madam Rosmerta would have done little to improve his humour.

Harry had spent the evening distracted, trying to keep an eye on that student, but he had done nothing but sit poker-straight at the Slytherin table, looking rather peaked. Ron had, predictably, been oblivious to everything but the food (pork roast with whipped potatoes and peas), and Hermione had fluttered between finding Ron heart-meltingly cute (the way his hair flopped over his eyes or that little grin every time he looked at her) and unbelievably infuriating (every second word out of his mouth involved a Quidditch term, and he had sprayed bits of potato around when he laughed at Seamus's disturbingly accurate imitation of Professor Sinistra).

Once they had been dismissed, Harry had tried to talk Hermione and Ron into taking the Invisibility Cloak and tailing Malfoy. He had the Cloak with him in his pocket, as usual; it seemed he never went anywhere without it anymore.

"I'm getting worried about you." Hermione looked at Harry, troubled. "You're getting obsessive about Malfoy."

"I know you don't believe me," Harry said shortly, "but at the very least, as my so-called friend, could you not accuse me of mental illness?"

"That's not what I meant, Harry, honestly." Hermione frowned, both frustrated and annoyed. Harry and Ron had both been getting so funny lately, misinterpreting everything on purpose, or being so self-absorbed that they were downright oblivious to anything else going on. "I don't think you're crazy for worrying about Malfoy. I just think you should remember there are other things in life besides Draco Malfoy and whatever it is he's up to."

"Yeah, I know, I should be studying, right?" Harry snorted derisively. "Only tell me, how is getting good marks in Herbology going to help me defeat Voldemort?" he snarled. Hermione could have mentioned how knowing about Gillyweed would have been a great bonus to Harry during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and that a similar situation could possibly arise in a confrontation with Voldemort, but she didn't. Sometimes, it was better to keep one's mouth shut.

"You're the one who should get her nose out of the library and take a look at 'other things in life', Hermione." Harry stalked off, alone.

"Touchy, eh?" Ron said, giving Hermione a goofy grin.

Hermione smiled in a pained way. "Oh, Ron, he's right, in a way. I mean, now that he knows about the--" She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure they were alone in the corridor. "--the Prophecy, school really isn't a priority for him anymore."

"But you're right, Hermione," Ron replied staunchly. "If he doesn't get off this Malfoy kick, he's going to start failing his subjects. He needs to pass so he can take his NEWTs next year." And start his Auror training, was the unspoken conclusion.

"Ron, don't you get it?" Hermione said, as gently as she could. "Harry's worried that he might not _live_ that long."

Hermione and Ron covered the rest of the distance to the Gryffindor common room in uncomfortable silence. At the portrait hole, Ron let Hermione go first, and put his hand on her back, perhaps to guide her or steady her, or perhaps just to touch her. Hermione ducked her head and smiled, feeling a pleasant twinge in her stomach. Since she'd told him that she wanted him to come to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, he'd been downright chivalrous. He was so cute; she knew now that he fancied her, but it was hard for both of them to move their relationship on to the next level, seeing as they had been 'just' friends for so long.

They said goodnight in the common room, both hesitating a little, waiting to see if the other one wanted to say something else; both wanting to say something else, but being too shy to do so. Finally, Ron mumbled something about having a happy Halloween and shambled off to the boys' dorms. Hermione returned the sentiment and fairly skipped up to her room.

+000+000+

Snape finished decanting the potion into individual phials and stoppered them firmly. Four phials. Four doses. Four crimes about to be committed. He refused to think about that, though. He had long ago stopped thinking beyond the moment where his service to the Dark Lord was concerned. If he had thought about repercussions, consequences, lives being destroyed, he would surely have gone insane. Or killed himself.

He cleaned the cauldron in which he had prepared the potion with a methodical flick of his wand. Taking proper care of one's equipment was important. He then placed the four phials neatly onto a tray and carried them down the hall to the room where the ritual was to take place.

They were in an underground bunker, built by Muggles some sixty years earlier, but long since forgotten by them. The whole place was cramped and low-ceilinged, and he had to duck his head when passing through doorways. Dull greenish paint flaked off the omnipresent metal and concrete, and the ceilings and walls were stained brown and black with the results of water seepage and fungal growth. All in all, it was a rather depressing place to be. But then, he considered, the Dark Lord hadn't appropriated the premises for a holiday escape.

"Milord, the potion has arrived." Pettigrew's eyes sparkled in anticipation, but he avoided meeting the bearer's gaze. His left hand incessantly caressed his right.

"Excellent." Voldemort looked up from the tome he had been perusing, his blood-red eyes flicking to the tablet with the doses, then up to their author. "Then we may prepare for the evening's festivities." His lips spread in a disgusting leer. "Snape. You have been extremely courteous in the past. Always letting others take their turn. I think it's about time you were rewarded for your continuing loyalty."

"Milord." Snape inclined his head deferentially, his face blank. "I thank you for your benevolence. I am pleased to be able to serve you, as ever. I need no further reward."

Pettigrew snickered, his left hand moving more quickly over the smooth silver curve of his right one now.

Voldemort's red gaze pierced Snape's black one. "I insisssst," he hissed softly.

Snape did not look away, but he stiffened perceptibly. "I believe you know that I find the prospect of touching...Muggle flesh," he seemed barely able to suppress a shudder, "distasteful in the extreme. Perhaps Pettigrew would prefer--"

"Pettigrew will get his, don't worry about that, won't you, Peter?" Voldemort still did not take his eyes off Snape.

Pettigrew nodded with glee. "Yes, Master."

Voldemort's hands cramped convulsively on the book before him, creasing the yellowed pages. "But I feel that you have been neglected by us of late, Snape. I don't want you to think that we aren't keeping an eye out for you. You've been spending altogether too much time away from our company. Tonight's round of activity will do you a world of good."

"As Milord wishes," Snape acquiesced.

"And--" His leer became more obscene. "--Tonight, you need not worry about sullying yourself with Muggle flesh. But I dare say no more, lest I spoil the surprise!"

+000+000+

Hermione awoke with a start. It was quiet, yet something had woken her. There was a faint light filtering in through the dormitory window. She turned her head to look at her roommates' beds and she was barely able to suppress a scream as her heart leapt into her throat: a black figure was hovering next to her bed. At first, she thought it was one of the resident ghosts; the Grey Lady? Then she noticed the white skull mask, and she took a breath to scream, but in that moment the figure touched her, and she felt a violent jerk which pulled at her from somewhere deep inside her gut. And then there was blackness.

+000+000+

Snape drank the potion. It was smooth and greasy going down, and the bitter taste of ironwood bark clung to the inside of his throat. This was only the second time that he had taken it; the second time that he had been selected for this particular task. The first time, eighteen years earlier, it had been a sort of ritual of initiation. He had looked forward to it, been excited. Now, he felt absolutely nothing. He did not allow himself to feel anything. If he had, he would have retched up the potion all over the cracked brown linoleum. And he needed the potion, would not be able to complete the ritual without it. Already, he could feel its effects.

He took note of the two initiates out of the corner of his eye, also swallowing their potion. One of them was Draco. Snape supposed that the Dark Lord might have singled him, Snape, out for this task in order to bolster Draco. Not that the youth looked particularly like he needed any egging on. He was walking with a swagger, joking with the other initiate, Venalle, about what they were going to do. As Snape had done his first time.

Venalle, a few years older, had bragged, of course, that he wouldn't need the potion, but clearer, more experienced heads had prevailed. Pettigrew, the fourth member of their group, had knocked his back eagerly, licking his lips. Now, all that remained was to wait for the victims.

They were in an anteroom just off the larger room of assembly. The minutes ticked by. It wouldn't be long now. Draco and Venalle were obviously enjoying the potion's progressive effect on their bodies, adjusting their positions and their robes both pompously and self-consciously.

Two knocks on the door told them that the 'favors', as the Dark Lord called them, had arrived. Favors for his loyal followers. Snape was now feeling some physical discomfort, and was glad that everything would be over soon. As with any other unpleasant task, the only thing to do was to switch off one's innate reactions and get on with it. Afterward, it would be nothing but a memory.

A minute later, a triple knock on the door signalled them to pull their hoods up over their heads and mask their faces. It was silly, really; everyone knew who everyone else was, even with the masks, and the Muggles would be Obliviated afterward anyway. But Voldemort insisted on the masks, and who were they to argue?

The door was opened, and Snape led the others out. A good dozen Death Eaters ringed the room, both as observers and as vicarious hedonists. Voldemort himself was standing at the head of the room. His black robe hung straight down from his narrow shoulders, giving the impression that there was no body underneath it. His head was bare, and despite the skull-like appearance, he emanated an immense sense of power, at once attractive and repulsive. His red eyes locked on to Snape greedily as a haughty sneer disfigured his features even further.

And there were the 'favors', laid out on operating tables appropriated from the old Muggle field hospital which had been housed here. Snape allowed himself to glance briefly at the nearest one. A blonde, vaguely pretty, although it was hard to see past the rigidity brought on by her Immobilization. And young. A special concession to the initiates; they often found it difficult to complete the task with women old enough to be their mothers. Or grandmothers.

Snape tried not to focus on the stiff forms, but he did take in the fact that they were all young, barely more than girls. He took in the fact that they were all wearing nightclothes. And he took in the fact that that one had a great deal of long, frizzy brown hair. His step faltered, his heart started thumping harder in his chest. She was at the wrong angle to see her face, but it couldn't be--. He looked at the blonde one again, the closest one. She was looking at him now, her eyeballs swivelled sideways in her immobilized head. She was afraid. And he knew her. That was Lisa Turpin, a sixth-year in Ravenclaw. And the others-- Sandy Ploppe, a seventh-year Hufflepuff; Oonagh MacDermott, her year-mate from Gryffindor, and-- yes, it was, damnit, it had to be. Potter's friend, Hermione Granger. Good gods in the heavens. Voldemort had kidnapped four Muggle-born Hogwarts students for them to rape.

+000+000+

It was cold. Her chest hurt. Her head felt thick and heavy; feverish. She heard voices, dimly, murmuring. Remembering what had happened, she tried to move and panicked when she realized that she couldn't. Not her arms, not her legs, not ever her head. She must be Immobilized. This diagnosis was confirmed by the fact that she was able to open her eyes. _Immobulus_ only interfered with the larger movements; the internal systemic musculature of the digestive, cardio-vascular and respiratory systems was unaffected, and swallowing and blinking were still possible. Vocalization, however was not. It calmed her ever so slightly to know that, even in a situation like this, her wits hadn't left her.

What situation was she in, anyway? She turned her eyes this way and that, trying to see. The room was weakly lit, but it was clear that she wasn't in her dormitory any more. There were shadowy figures standing around the sides of the room: Death Eaters. She was lying on her back on a raised surface. A bed, perhaps, but it was a little too high to be a bed. Too hard, as well. A table. Made of wood, or maybe metal. She couldn't move her hand to feel the material, but it was cold enough. Just at the edge of her field of vision, she could see someone else lying down in a similar position, wearing a light-coloured nightdress. She couldn't see who it was, but she had the uneasy feeling it was another Hogwarts student. She didn't dwell on that for long, however for another thought arose: why had they been brought here? She could only imagine two things that Death Eaters would do to witches bound immobilized on slabs: either they were going to torture her for information...or they were going to kill her. Probably both. She swallowed convulsively and stared straight up at the ceiling.

"Ah, splendid, splendid!" An unnaturally high man's voice spoke. It also sounded to Hermione like it might be magically distorted. Or perhaps magically sustained. Someone in the same direction as the speaker clapped twice. "We are ready to begin, then. I trust you have already recognized what a special event we have in store tonight." The voice took on a dark, threatening edge. "You Mudbloods, I am speaking to you as well, so listen carefully. I want you to take back every word, every action, to your Headmaster."

_So there are other students here,_ Hermione thought_, and they're not going to kill us. Not if we have to report back to Dumbledore._ She thought this with both relief and trepidation. It was certainly good to know that she would live through the night. But whatever in the Nine Hells they had been brought here for, she didn't want to contemplate...

+000+000+

"Tonight," Voldemort said, "the Death Eaters are taking another step forward. Up until now, only the ensign of the Dark Mark has testified of our work. We have been forced to eradicate all witnesses in order to protect ourselves from the injustice of the filthy Muggle-lovers. But with the Dementors now working with us, we are ready to show our strength. You, Mudblood whores, will bear witness to all of wizardkind, of what happens to those who are unworthy to control the magic they possess, and who fight against the inevitability of our dominion."

A murmur of assent rose from the edges of the room.

"And now," he continued with gleeful anticipation, "I am sure that our participants are eager for the fun to begin. Initiates, you may choose your favorite. No pushing, now," he added with a chortle, "there's enough to go round."

Pettigrew echoed his master's laugh and squeezed his silver hand spasmodically in his impatience.

Venalle stepped immediately to Lisa Turpin's side. "Milord," he asked eagerly, "shall I cancel the spell? Or is it better to leave them Immobilized?"

Voldemort chuckled, a mirthless, raspy sound. "It is entirely up to you. Although I believe it will be much more entertaining all round if they are free to thrash and scream. However--" He raised a skeletal finger even as Venalle raised his wand. "Wait a moment, until all of your friends are in position. It seems that our second initiate is having a bit of difficulty choosing."

Snape looked at Draco, who was, indeed, standing irresolutely just a few paces away from the door. He looked at Snape through his mask. "Those are Hogwarts students," he whispered to him.

"You think I haven't recognized that, you prat?" Snape hissed back. "Just pick one and get it over with."

"But I--" Snape could see Draco's grey eyes, wide behind the slits. And if he could see them, the others would be able to see them as well.

"What seems to be the problem?" Voldemort inquired with a hint of impatience.

Snape turned back to the Dark Lord and at the same time pointed his wand at his own throat. "_Voxtorqueo_." Thus ensuring that his voice would not be recognized, he continued, "Milord, permission to approach."

Voldemort testily signalled his acquiescence.

Snape approached to within two paces, then dropped to one knee and bowed his head, trying to ignore the urgent throbbing which the potion had brought on. "Milord," he spoke in a low voice, "the initiate fears that he will be recognized. They are his classmates, after all. And if I may, the same goes for myself. I would not be able to continue in my position at Hogwarts if it should come out that I was here tonight."

Voldemort did not respond for a moment. Then he said, "Then ensure that it does not come out. _Crucio_!"

A cramping pain seized every muscle in Snape's body instantly. He gritted his teeth; this was a mild one. He wouldn't need to scream. He wouldn't... With a twist of his wand, Voldemort punctuated the spell. Snape gasped for air.

"Never question me," Voldemort said flatly.

"Thank you, Milord," Snape whispered hoarsely and stood up with as much dignity as he could. He then went to Draco and grabbed his arm. "Do not speak and keep your gaze averted as much as you can," he hissed at him irritably. "You must comply. Try and get it over with quickly. There is little chance any of them will recognize us."

"But I can't!" Draco sounded close to panic. "I-- I know them! I don't want to hurt them!"

"And yet you would have no qualms about doing the same to someone else's schoolmate, girlfriend, or daughter," he shot back. "If you want to survive among the Death Eaters, I suggest you get rid of your conscience right now. Or bury it where it won't plague you. Now go on. I will not be able to protect you from our Master's displeasure." Snape fairly threw Draco forward.

The young man looked around, only now, it seemed, taking note of the other Death Eaters ringing the room. Making a decision, he threw back his shoulders and walked, almost cockily, to the Hufflepuff seventh-year.

Voldemort nodded and smiled. "And you, Wormtail? Whom do you wish to have your fun with this evening?"

Pettigrew scampered to the raven-haired MacDermott girl, panting and groping at his groin.

"That leaves the runt of the litter for you," Voldemort said to Snape disdainfully. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know. Choice is a dangerous thing to have anyway. Be grateful that you have been spared it."

Snape walked stiffly to the table on which Hermione lay. She watched him approach with fear and loathing. He had to remind himself that she didn't know who he was. Although, he considered, she would give him much the same look if she did.

"You all know the rules," Voldemort announced. "Anything goes, and last one left standing wins!" He clapped his hands twice, and the Death Eaters around the room began to hiss.

+000+000+

Hermione had figured out that the strange, high voice was Voldemort, although she couldn't see him from where she was. She had also understood that four Death Eaters were going to be in charge of their torture, and that one of them, an initiate, had balked. Unfortunately, it wasn't the one who was coming over to her now. She was getting an experienced one. Remembering that Harry had been tortured by Voldemort himself, she reasoned that she should be able to get through whatever this Death Eater had in store for her, and the thought gave her new resolve.

She took note of his gait as he approached, thinking that she might be able to identify him later by it. Also his height, build, and hands, the only part of him that wasn't covered by his robe. His skin was pale, and the backs of his hands were sparsely covered with black hairs. They weren't the hands of a young man; the veins were already prominent, but there were no wrinkles or liver spots, so he wasn't that old, either. She looked at his face, trying to see something through the shadowy eye holes, but he held his head at an angle that made it impossible.

Voldemort started to say something, but at that very moment, 'her' Death Eater leaned over and whispered quickly, "Keep your eyes closed. Block off your mind. Do not fight. I will do my best not to hurt you." Then she heard two sharp claps, and a terrible hissing began.

Immediately, a cry of "_Crucio_!" rang out. Then another voice: "_Finite Incantatem_." And then she was also being freed. Her limbs relaxed, and she started to pull herself up, but the Death Eater pushed her back down fiercely, knocking the wind out of her. "Take my advice," he said, sharp and low.

Now able to move, however, she wasn't about to take whatever he had planned for her lying down. She scrambled into a sitting position, just in time to see another Death Eater point his wand-- rather shakily, she thought; perhaps that was the reluctant initiate-- at a girl who was curled up in a ball. Actually not such a bad strategy, Hermione thought, but then the girl was hit by a Cruciatus, and her body stretched out involuntarily, twisting and writhing with pain. Holy Mother Circe, Hermione thought to herself. That's Sandy Ploppe. She tried to get a look at the other two girls, but the Death Eater at her side was pushing her down again, his hand on her throat. "I won't warn you again, Miss Granger," he whispered, more urgently this time. "Keep still, or I shall be forced to do something we would both regret." Hermione thought he was trying to keep his tone down below that of the incessant hissing, which was in effect working like a Muffliato charm.

Hermione was startled into compliance. Miss Granger? Who among the Death Eaters would address her like that? Draco? Could Harry have been right about him being a Death Eater? But this wasn't Draco. He wouldn't have called her 'Miss Granger', and anyway, his hands wouldn't look like that. Who else? Hermione tried frantically to think, hoping that her identifying him now could somehow help her. Could it be... Was it Snape? He was supposed to have been reformed, but maybe he was still one of them. He said he would try not to hurt her. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he was just pretending to be one of them. This calmed her slightly.

One of the other girls was screaming now. Not the incoherent screams of pain which accompanied the Cruciatus curse, but cries of "No! Please, don't! Help me!" Hermione turned her head and saw a smallish Death Eater climbing up on top of a girl with short, dark hair (that had to be Oonagh!). He ripped her nightshirt apart and shoved his mask halfway up onto his head so that he could get his mouth around her exposed breast. She continued to plead for help and tried to push him away, putting her knees up against his body, but he simply immobilized her again in that position.

Hermione was watching the scene in horror, until she felt 'her' Death Eater pull her down toward the bottom edge of the table. She propped herself up on her elbows, thinking that he wanted her to stand up, but instead he grasped the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and started to yank them off.

"What are you doing?" she screeched, grabbing at the pants.

In response, he placed his wand at her throat and pulled her pants off with his other hand. Hermione got a sick feeling of foreboding, worse than when she had thought that she was 'merely' going to be tortured.

"_Tarantallegra! Rictusempra!_" Across the room, Lisa Turpin was lying on the floor, legs moving wildly and a terrible forced laughter coming from her lips. Her face was covered in blood, and a tall, thin Death Eater was standing over her, legs apart and arms crossed, like the Colossus. His shoulders were shaking, as if in mirth.

Hermione felt the cold, unyielding surface of the metal tabletop under her bare buttocks. Her legs were hanging off the edge of the table, and the Death Eater (whom she was now sure was not Snape: he might be mean, but he would never do this) was standing between them. Compulsively, she sought out the eyes behind the mask of the man standing over her, but the inside was lost in shadow. Still keeping his wand at her throat (long, fourteen or fifteen inches, black wood), he hitched his robe up with his other hand and reached underneath, just below waist level. Hermione shook her head frantically. "No, please don't, please," she pleaded, near tears, "put me under the Cruciatus, please, just don't--" She tried to cover up her nakedness with one hand, grabbed his wand with the other.

"_Imperio!_" the man commanded loudly.

Hermione felt numb. She was fully aware of what was happening, but she was completely uninvolved. It was as if she were experiencing it all through many layers of cotton. She was certain that if she lay perfectly still, nothing bad would happen. Nothing bad at all.

But then she felt his cold fingers seeking her opening, splaying her lips, and something else was pressing against her, something warm, and then there was a quick twinge, and she knew that he had entered her, and the shock of it threw off the Curse. She clutched at his wand with one hand, the edge of the table with the other, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was being raped. It was really happening. The hissing filled her ears, and she screamed.


	2. Chapter 2: Raped

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 2**

**-Raped-**

Voldemort had chided the Death Eater who had abused her for 'wasting a golden opportunity' and 'going soft', but nevertheless he had been allowed to remove her from the room, where the other three girls were still being subjected to the most vile acts. He had wordlessly thrust her pyjamas into her hand and escorted her a short way down a dingy corridor, to a tiny chamber that might well have been a broom closet at one point. There, he had closed the door, leaving her in darkness. It didn't even occur to her to check whether the door was locked, whether she might be able to escape.

She had been raped. It seemed unreal. She had been a virgin. Now she was soiled. She was sore, and in addition the friction had irritated her urethra. Not knowing how long she would be left there, not even caring about making herself dirtier, she crouched in a corner and relieved herself. It stung. She crawled to another corner and curled herself up, shivering both from cold and shock, clutching the pyjama bottoms to her chest like a security blanket, while the stinging and soreness receded to a dull throb.

After a while, Hermione didn't know how long, the door was opened and Sandy stumbled in, wearing a long blue T-shirt. She cried out at first upon seeing Hermione, and then the door was shut and they were left in darkness once again.

"'S allright," Hermione whispered. "It's just me. Hermione Granger."

"Oh God," Sandy gasped, and Hermione heard her collapse onto the floor. She sobbed miserably. Hermione listened to her, counting the seconds between each great racking gasp. That way she didn't have to think of what had happened, didn't have to remember each jarring thrust, each animal grunt. Seven seconds. Six. Seven again. Five and a half-ish. If she kept track, she could calculate the average and the mean.

Sandy had calmed down-- Hermione had thought she might even be sleeping, although her breaths were still coming in stuttered jerks-- by the time Oonagh joined them. She was completely naked, and there were angry red marks on her chest, shoulders, and neck, and one eye was red and puffy, but she wrenched her arm away from her captor-- Hermione saw that he was a good head shorter than her--and screeched, "Get me something decent to wear, you filthy Death Eater _scum_!" He gave her a push into the tiny room, and she whirled around and pushed him back, hard enough that he reeled back a couple of steps. She then walked regally into the room with Hermione and Sandy and remained standing when the door was closed firmly behind her.

"Is that you, Hermione?" she asked into the darkness.

"Yeah," Hermione answered quietly.

"Thought so."

Hermione heard her trying the door.

"Locked," Oonagh muttered, and kicked the offending wooden slab. She was silent for a moment; then she muttered, "We need a plan."

"A... A plan?" Hermione queried, somewhat dazed. They'd all just been raped, for God's sake. Who could think of plans?

"Yes," Oonagh insisted, "for when they come back. Feel around, see if you can find something heavy. We could hit them over the head with it and run for it."

"But-- But they're armed with wands. And they're bigger and stronger than us, and there are more of them," Hermione protested.

"If it's the bugger who got me, and he comes on his own, I'd say the odds are more on our side than his. He was a right wanker. I nearly bit his thing off before he got me immobilized again." Oonagh sounded rather proud of herself.

"What about Lisa?" Hermione asked. "Is she still in there?"

Oonagh's voice became grim. "She got a bad one. I'm afraid he might just kill her. Blood everywhere. They'd already had to Ennervate her once by the time mine gave up on me."

"Oh God," Hermione whispered in horror.

"Oops, sorry," Oonagh said, apparently having stepped on someone, "who's this?"

There was no answer, so Hermione supplied, "That's Sandy. Sandy Ploppe."

"She bad off?"

"Obviously, aren't you?" Hermione retorted. "Didn't he-- I mean, was I the only one...?" Her voice trailed off. It suddenly occured to her that perhaps the other girls hadn't actually been raped. She hadn't exactly been in a position to monitor everything that had gone on. She'd seen and heard the others being hexed, beaten, cursed, and abused, but then the Death Eater assigned to her had...done That-- she felt revulsion and panic rising in her and thrust the thoughts away-- and then he'd been done and she'd been taken out, and she hadn't even looked to see how the others were; they could have all been dead at that point and she wouldn't even have noticed. Guilt mixed in with all the other bad feelings milling around in her gut, and she thrust that away from her, too.

But Oonagh wasn't really listening; she had moved on, feeling her way around the walls. "Shit, there's something wet on the floor here. It better just be water. Look, what's this." There was shifting sound, and a clank. "Feels like a bucket. And a box. Can't...get it open. Must be rusted shut or--"

But before she could investigate any further, the door was opened once again, and they saw two Death Eaters outside, supporting Lisa between them. She was wearing a nightdress with dark stains on it and looked unconscious. Her long, blond hair was also matted with blood.

"Lisa!" Hermione exclaimed, jumping up, in disregard of her own semi-naked state.

Oonagh, too, came quickly forward, and together, they gently took Lisa from the two men, all thoughts of a heroic escape forgotten.

"You can't leave her like this!" Hermione cried as the Death Eaters made to close the door.

"She needs a Healer!" Oonagh demanded.

"She'll live," one of the men informed them curtly before leaving them in darkness yet again.

"Lisa! Lisa!" Hermione and Oonagh tried to get some sort of response out of her, but she was either unable or unwilling. At least she was breathing, and they were unable to find any currently bleeding wounds

They settled for making their classmate as comfortable as they could on the floor, with her head cushioned by Hermione's rolled-up pyjama bottoms on Hermione's lap. Oonagh went back to the box she had found, trying to get it open, reasoning that it might contain supplies that they could use to help Lisa. They were all Muggle-born, so knew something about simple First Aid from a childhood of plasters, tincture of iodine, and aspirin.

After several minutes of silence, or perhaps it was an hour, it was impossible to keep track of time, Sandy asked in a raspy voice, "What do you think they're going to do with us?"

"Send us back to Hogwarts, didn't you hear? We're supposed to report back to Dumbledore and the rest, tell them how evil You-Know-Who is," Oonagh answered bitterly.

"Oh no, I can't," Sandy breathed. "I couldn't..."

"What do you mean?" Oonagh asked sharply. "Can't what?"

"I can't tell...about... that."

_So she at least probably had a similar experience as me_, Hermione thought. Somehow, that made her feel marginally better.

"But we can't let them get away with it!" Oonagh insisted. "We have to tell!"

"But then they'll all know!" Sandy sounded horrified.

Oh God. She was right, Hermione thought. They'll all know. Dumbledore, McGonagall, all the teachers. Harry. And Ron. Hermione's stomach turned anew at the thought. What would they think of her? Everything had been so innocent yesterday: the little flirty smiles and looks, the teasing and casual touches. And now... Now it was all ruined.

"Look," Oonagh said, slight exasperation evident in her tone, "if it'd been your house that was broken into, you'd report it to the authorities, wouldn't you?"

"That's different," Hermione pointed out, as reasonably as she could; she really wasn't in a frame of mind to form logical arguments. She was really just trying to defend Sandy at this point. "That's not so personal."

"Are you kidding me?" Oonagh said incredulously. "I'd have thought you'd be the first one to be demanding justice! You're always insisting that everyone follow the rules. We have to tell Dumbledore!"

"OK, wait a minute." Hermione closed her eyes. It was purely a symbolic gesture, as she couldn't see anything anyway, but it was supposed to help her calm down and think clearly. "Let's see," she began, thinking aloud. "Voldemort did this whole thing so that we'd go back and tell everyone. He wants this to become public knowledge. That right there should be a reason for us not to make it public."

Oonagh snorted. "That's probably exactly what he wants. He's just playing a mind game on us."

"No, I don't think so," Hermione said slowly. "I really believe he wants the wizarding world to know what he's done tonight. Look, all of his actions are directed either toward increasing his own power, or else scaring and cowing others. Which amounts to the same thing."

"Exactly!" Oonagh exclaimed. "That's why we can't let him scare us into submission. If we do, he wins. See, Sandy?"

Hermione didn't wait to hear if Sandy wanted to voice an opinion, for now she saw where her argument was going to lead. "Yes, that's true for us, personally," she admitted, setting aside for the moment her true personal feelings, which were at the moment very scared and submissive. "But we have to look at the larger picture here. What do you think would happen if it were to become common knowledge that Death Eaters had somehow gotten into Hogwarts unnoticed and kidnapped four students? Or more," she added with a shiver. "Maybe there are more." The thought was doubly chilling.

Oonagh accepted the premise. "All right, what if? They'd investigate how they got in, tighten security measures. That has to be good."

"Yes, but we can achieve that without publishing everything in the _Daily Prophet_," Hermione said pedantically. "There were already calls to shut down the school because of the Chamber of Secrets incident, or after Cedric was killed at the Tri-Wizard Tournament. This would clinch it. I don't think even Dumbledore would be able to keep the school open if this gets out. And even if he did, how many parents would let their children stay on?"

Everyone was silent for a minute, considering these points.

"I don't want to go back anyway," Sandy said in a muffled voice.

"Well what do you suggest?" Oonagh said, angrily. "Just skip back up to the school and say we were having a girls' night out and we just happened to lose half our clothes? And what about Lisa? She has to have medical attention! That's assuming they make good on their word and let us out of here, anyway," she muttered, as an afterthought.

Hermione was also starting to get uneasy about the long delay. Why weren't they being taken back yet? Her heart clenched at the thought that maybe they were going to be held for several days...with repeats of that night's 'performance'. She shoved that one away, too, as Too Scary To Deal With Right Now, and concentrated on answering Oonagh's question.

"I agree that we need to tell Dumbledore. Maybe the Aurors, too, if he thinks we should. Let's concentrate on remembering as many details as we can; things like voices, physical characteristics, anything that might help identify those men."

"Now that's more like it," Oonagh agreed. "Like I said, the one who got me was a wanker. Short and fat and had breath like the bottom of a compost heap." She made a disgusted noise.

"But I don't think we should tell any of the other students," Hermione cautioned. Not Lavender. Not Parvati. Not Harry. And not Ron. Especially Not Ron.

"What, not even our dormmates?" Oonagh objected. "Won't they wonder where we got to?"

"Good point," Hermione admitted. She was trying to think of a plausible explanation when the door opened again. The only thing Hermione was able to take note of was the Death Eater aiming a wand at her before unconsciousness claimed her again.


	3. Chapter 3: All Saints' Day, 1996

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 3**

**All Saints' Day, 1996**

It was dark when they materialized just outside the Hogwarts gates. They'd been sent back by Portkey. Hermione imagined that's how they'd been smuggled out, too, although she had no memory of it. She also didn't know whether it was the same night or the next one. She didn't imagine that more than a few hours had passed, but on the other hand it might have been a day that they had spent in that tiny room.

She was wearing her pyjamas again, tops and bottoms (she'd burn them when she got inside) and Sandy was wearing her blue nightshirt. Both of them were stained and had stiff spots. Oonagh had on a white robe (presumably a Death Eater second, but without the hood); and Lisa her nightgown, which had once been yellow but was now covered with dark filth. She was conscious now and able to walk, but she was apathetic and unresponsive, allowing herself merely to be guided by the other girls.

It was cold; there was no wind, but the air was penetrant, and the stars glittered icily in the blackness above. The gravel in the road leading up to the gates was frozen in place in the mud, and jabbed painfully into Hermione's bare feet. The four of them hobbled mutely up to the gates, which were, as usual, closed for the night. There were lights on in the castle, but judging by their sparsity, it was either very early in the morning or very late at night. Oonagh reached out with the hand that wasn't supporting Lisa and rattled at the flared iron gate latch, but it didn't give. Without their wands, they couldn't trigger the mechanism or signal their presence to whomever was on night duty at the castle.

"Hey!" Oonagh yelled up toward the main building.

Hermione shushed her with a frown. "You'll wake half the inhabitants!" she hissed. "Anyway, Hagrid's the only one who can hear you from here," she added, her teeth chattering.

Oonagh gave her a strange look. "That doesn't make any sense."

Sandy was standing against the fence, her forehead pressed against the metal bars. A shiver seized her body momentarily. "Look, there's a light coming," she murmured.

Hermione and Oonagh's heads snapped in the direction that Sandy was looking. It was true: there was a light bobbing along somewhere in the expanse between them and the castle. After several seconds, it became clear that the light was moving toward them.

"Right, that's probably Filch," Hermione said, trying to think quickly, but her brain was working so slowly. It felt again for a moment like it had when she was under the Imperius Curse: thick and far away. She shook her head and tried to get a grip. "We can't let him know what's happened. We'll say... We snuck out last night to go to Hogsmeade, but we got locked out, and Lisa fell down and got hurt in the dark."

"Without our wands? In our pyjamas?" Oonagh snorted. "Even Filch'd see through that in a second. We don't tell him anything," she said firmly. "He has to let us in, and we only talk to Dumbledore. Period. That's what we agreed. Right?" She looked around at the others.

Hermione nodded mutely, wondering distractedly what was wrong with her powers of reason.

The light was bobbing more quickly now, and they could see a pale, pinched face underneath a tall, pointed hat in its glow. The figure stretched its wand arm out and the gate's latch clicked downward. Oonagh and Hermione reached out at the same time and pushed it open.

"Girls!" Professor McGonagall's distress was evident. "Good heavens, we've just received word. How terrible! Thank goodness you're all all right. Are you--" She stopped short as they came close enough for her to see them properly. Her lips compressed as she took in the sight of them, and her eyes flashed in momentary anger.

"Professor, Lisa needs to see Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, trying to convey the urgency of the situation.

"I am taking you _all_ to the Hospital Wing," Minerva said sternly.

"Oh, no, I'm all right," Hermione said bravely. "We have to see the Headmaster right away."

"It's really very important," Oonagh chimed in. "I'll be fine, too."

Professor McGonagall eyed the swollen purple skin surrounding Oonagh's eye. "You will come with me to the Hospital Wing." She turned her attention to Lisa, who was standing shivering between Hermione and Oonagh. "Miss Turpin," she said gently. "Miss Turpin, are you able to walk on your own?"

Lisa stared at the ground. Her breath was coming in short, low gasps.

"She won't say anything, Professor," Hermione said in a low voice, as if she didn't want Lisa to hear her talking about her.

"Come here, Miss Turpin," Minerva said kindly, reaching out to take Oonagh's place as Lisa's support. "I will help you. Miss MacDermott and Miss Granger are injured themselves."

But Lisa flinched away from the professor and gripped Hermione's arm more tightly. "I think we'd better just get inside quickly, if that's all right," Hermione said, uncomfortable with being the one to override Professor McGonagall's orders.

Minerva gave Lisa a penetrating stare, then turned and held her wand aloft. "Lumos! Quickly, then!" And the five of them made their way up the path to the safety of the school.

+000+000+

"Hermione." Madam Pomfrey pulled the curtain around the bed on which Hermione had been sitting for a good hour, giving them privacy. She smiled warmly at the student. She and Hermione had become close during the months Hermione had spent on the ward, both recovering from her Polyjuice experiment, and from her Petrification. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get to you. The others seemed to have suffered more urgent injuries."

"That's all right. I'm pretty well, actually."

"We'll just have a look, shall we?" Madam Pomfrey inspected Hermione's face and head, taking extra time to look into her eyes. "The Imperius?" she asked, her voice neutral.

Hermione nodded.

"Have you experienced any dizziness? Headaches? Disorientation? Inability to think coherently? After the Curse had been lifted, I mean."

Hermione shrugged. "I don't think so. Not that I remember, anyway." She paused. "Maybe a little," she admitted.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, satisfied. "That's to be expected after a lengthy exposure. It should clear up in twenty-four hours. Now, let's have a look at the rest of you. Remove your shirt, please."

"I told you, I'm fine. They didn't really do anything to me." Aside from That. But even that pain had faded. Mostly.

"Please, Hermione." Madam Pomfrey held her wand at her side and stood there patiently. "I think you know I only have your best interests at heart. That, and the Headmaster will insist that I make a thorough examination, in order to determine what...harm has been done." As Madam Pomfrey spoke the last few words, it seemed to Hermione that her normally professional facade softened a bit, showing her deep concern for her young patient.

Hermione sighed and unbuttoned her shirt. Madam Pomfrey looked her over, front and back. "No contusions. You were very lucky. But the Cruciatus does most of its damage on the inside. Let's just take a look--" She lifted her wand and placed it on Hermione's first vertebra.

"I wasn't put under the Cruciatus," Hermione interrupted.

Madam Pomfrey stopped. "You weren't?" She sounded surprised.

"No," Hermione answered softly. She felt as if she'd done something wrong. All the other girls had, she knew. But she hadn't.

"Well. You were very, very lucky, indeed." Madam Pomfrey came back around to stand before Hermione. "If I may ask, then...What other spells were you subjected to, other than the Imperius?"

Hermione looked down at her hands. She hadn't realized that she was twisting her fingers in her lap. "None," she responded.

"Perhaps you didn't realize it," Madam Pomfrey reasoned. "The Imperius--"

"No," Hermione said, and there was a rasping sound in her throat. She coughed to clear it. "There was nothing. I-- I was only under the Imperius for a short time. A minute, maybe. There weren't any other spells." She raised her eyes, but only far enough to look at Madam Pomfrey's neck. You could see the tendons pulling the skin taut.

Madam Pomfrey gave Hermione an appraising look, and there was a hint of admiration in her voice when she spoke. "You must have a very strong will. To throw off the Imperius so quickly, and protect yourself from everything else. Doing such advanced wandless magic, at your age. But I suppose you are a very special witch."

Hermione didn't answer. Maybe she had, somehow, unconsciously protected herself. Just like she had that summer when she was nine and some big boys had thrown mud balls with hornets inside at her, and she'd somehow been able to shield herself. But then that didn't make any sense; there hadn't been anything for her to protect herself against last night. There hadn't been any Cruciatus directed at her. No pain. No violence. Nothing...except That. And she certainly hadn't done anything to stop it. She recalled briefly seeing Oonagh across the room, clawing at her attacker, kicking him, fighting him every step of the way whenever he'd briefly let up the Immobulus. But she, Hermione, had done nothing. She'd been told to lie still, and she had. She'd let it happen.

"Hermione?" Madam Pomfrey was speaking to her.

She looked up at the Healer. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear..?"

"I said, would you please remove your pants?" she repeated, patiently.

Hermione didn't move. Remove her pants. The fingers, grabbing at her waistband. A feeling of nausea arose in her gut.

"Hermione? Are you all right?" Madam Pomfrey placed her arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Lie down now, here we go, you're looking a bit pale." She guided Hermione until she was lying on her back on the hospital bed.

Hermione felt the thick, stiff sheets beneath her fingers. So different from the soft sheets up in the dorms. Madam Pomfrey was pulling the woolen blanket up over her. It scratched horribly against her naked torso, but she didn't say anything. The Healer stuffed a pillow under her feet so that they were slightly elevated. "I'm just going to check on the others," she said, pulling the curtain back slightly. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes. Try to take slow, even breaths."

Hermione closed her eyes. She heard footsteps, people talking in low voices, the distant clanking sound of wood on metal. She felt herself losing touch with consciousness, her brain already drifting down the path toward sleep, when a voice right next to her jarred her back out of the depths.

"We have to go see Dumbledore!"

Hermione opened her eyes. It was Oonagh. She was wearing her school robes. Her face wasn't swollen anymore, although the skin around her eye was still slightly discolored.

"I've been waiting for you. Madam Pomfrey took forever on Sandy, but she was done with you pretty quickly. You really didn't have much, did you." She said this neutrally, as a statement of fact, but Hermione felt as if it were a reproach.

Hermione rolled over onto her side and tried to peer through the gap in the curtain around the bed. It was still dark outside. "What time is it?"

"Just past seven."

"Morning or evening?"

"Morning."

Then her dormmates would just be getting up, just noticing she was gone. What would she say to them? Her stomach gripped again.

"Miss MacDermott!" Madam Pomfrey came back, carrying a tray. "What are you doing out of bed? And disturbing the other patients. I'm not quite done with Miss Granger yet." She shooed Oonagh out, but not before the other girl had given Hermione a hard look and urged, "Hurry up!"

Hermione lay back again, holding the blanket up against her chin.

"Feeling better?" Madam Pomfrey asked, letting go of the tray so that it hovered in the air next to her.

Hermione nodded. "I'm just tired, I guess."

"Of course, I'll let you get right to sleep. We just need to do one more thing." She perched herself on the edge of the chair next to Hermione's bed and tilted her head so that it was at the same angle as Hermione's. "Now, I know you've told me you weren't harmed magically, aside from the Imperius," she began gently. "But I have to know: were you harmed physically?"

Hermione swallowed over a dry throat.

"I have reason to believe that you were," Madam Pomfrey said, and Hermione knew that she knew. The other girls had told her. Or maybe she could see it, the same way she could see the aftereffects of the Imperius in her eyes. Maybe everyone would be able to see it. Hermione wanted to look away, but she couldn't.

"It doesn't hurt," she whispered. And it didn't, as long as she lay still. That had been good advice: lie still, and nothing bad will happen.

Madam Pomfrey smiled kindly. "That's good. As I say, you've been lucky in many ways so far. But, if a physical attack did take place, there may be damage which you are unable to feel. Internal damage. I'd like for you to let me take a look. I promise I'll do my best not to hurt you."

Madam Pomfrey stood and moved to the end of the bed. The tray followed her. Hermione noticed only now that there were a couple of small glass bottles on it, some cotton swabs, a comb, and tweezers.

"Hermione, I'm going to pull back the covers now. Can you slide your pants down?"

Hermione reached under the blanket and pushed her pyjama bottoms down, and Madam Pomfrey helped her remove them.

"That's fine. Keep your knees up like that, that's it, just a little more apart, I'm just going to take a look."

Hermione stared up at the ceiling and clenched the blanket against her chest, trying to concentrate on the scratchiness against her skin, rather than what Madam Pomfrey was doing. She felt the Healer's fingers, and knew she was trying to be discreet, but it made her think of those cold fingers and that other foreign intrusion. She felt a lump in her throat and willed herself not to cry. She hadn't cried then, and she wouldn't cry now. Sandy had cried. Last night and this morning, during Madam Pomfrey's examination. Hermione had heard her. She knew those sobs by heart now.

After a few minutes, Madam Pomfrey pulled the blanket back over Hermione's legs. "That's all; you did very well," she said with a smile. "Again, I think you were very lucky. There was just a small tear, which I've already fixed up for you. We'll know about any possible viral infections in a couple of days."

"Viral infections?"

"I wouldn't worry about it, but you never know," Madam Pomfrey said reassuringly. "Now you just close your eyes and get some sleep. I'll make sure you aren't disturbed."

"Dumbledore!" Hermione exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows. "We have to see the Headmaster right away!"

Madam Pomfrey tutted. "I know, Miss MacDermott's been raging at the bit to get up to see him, but as I've already told her: Professor Dumbledore is not here. The Deputy Headmistress has given orders that the four of you are to stay here until he returns and is able to speak to you. She hopes that will be later today."

"And my dormmates?" Hermione asked, agitated. "Do they know...that I'm here?" And do they know what happened?

"All of your dormmates have been informed that you were taken ill during the night and are being treated here. However, they will not be allowed to see you until after you've spoken with the Headmaster. Minerva's orders." It was clear that Madam Pomfrey was in complete agreement with the Deputy Headmistress.

Hermione lay back on the flat hospital pillow and was about to close her eyes when she realized she was still naked under the blanket.

"Madam Pomfrey?" she called.

"Yes?" The Healer stopped just as she was about to leave the area.

"May I... Could I have my pyjamas back, please?" Not that she particularly wanted to put those filthy things back on, now or ever. But being naked was worse, at the moment.

"I'm afraid we have to keep them until the investigation is completed. Professor McGonagall has had a set of your robes sent down from your room." She nodded at the chair beside Hermione's bed, where a black bundle lay neatly on the seat, and then swished the curtain shut behind her.

Hermione sat up and began pulling her clothes on. They were freshly laundered and felt cool and fresh, and when she lay down again and pulled the blanket up over her, she felt almost normal. Until the nightmares began.

_AN: Next up: Snape._


	4. Chapter 4: Love and Loyalty

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 4**

**Love and Loyalty**

Snape deliberately screwed the lid back on the tub of unguent, being careful to line up the markings just so. Too tight and it would stick the next time. Too loose and it would get dried out. He had created the salve and he took pride in treating it with the proper care and respect. He replaced the container exactly where it had been on the shelf, adjusting it so that the label was facing out and was precisely centred. He twiddled a couple of other jars and bottles into more perfect position as well. Somehow not satisfied with the results, but unable to make any further improvements on the order, he extinguished the light in the bathroom and walked slowly into his sitting room.

The unguent was already penetrating his skin, sinking into the muscles and stopping the aftercramps. He needed to remain seated for the next hour at least, however, in order to be certain that his legs wouldn't seize up in mid-stride.

The Dark Lord had ordered the other Death Eaters to each take a turn bestowing upon Snape all the curses and hexes which they felt he should have used on Hermione. Unimaginative as that lot was, it had mainly been a lot of Cruciatus, administered with varying degrees of vehemence. Snape had found Nott, in particular, to be extremely zealous in his application. Probably put out that Snape hadn't put the 'favors' which he, Nott, had procured, to better use.

He sat down heavily on the one chair that was free of the piles of books, rolls of parchment, and reams of paper which filled the room, and closed his eyes. He wouldn't sleep; he couldn't, even if he had had time to; every nerve in his body was buzzing. He didn't want to think about what had happened. But he would have to, at least once more, when he reported to Dumbledore. There was no way to avoid it. The girls would tell the Headmaster what had happened; he was sure of it. Even if they had meant to keep it secret before (these things were possible), he had ensured by reporting the kidnapping to Minerva that Dumbledore would question them. And he knew at least one of them would crack, would divulge the depth of sickness and perversity to which Voldemort's Death Eaters had sunk. To which he had sunk.

+000+000+

"And just where do you think you're going?" Parvati stopped Ron on the stairs up to the sixth-year girls' dormitory.

"I was just...going down to breakfast," Ron answered, feeling a little indignant at having to explain himself to Parvati. What business was it of hers where he was going?

Parvati snickered. "Erm...then you're heading the wrong way."

Ron curled his lip at her. "I'm going to see if Hermione's ready, duh. Who died and made you guardian of the dorms anyway?"

"She's not there." Parvati flounced past him, tossing her braid over her shoulder and hitting him 'accidentally' in the face with it.

"Oy! Watch it! You could take someone's eye out with that thing!" He galumphed down the stairs after her. "You could've said she'd already gone down, you know."

"She hasn't. Well, she has. But not to breakfast. She's in the hospital wing." Parvati said this matter-of-factly.

"What?" Ron screeched, visions of basilisks, cerberi, giant spiders, and dementors rising before his inner eye. He grabbed Parvati by the braid and pulled her to a halt. "What happened?"

"Ow!" Parvati slapped Ron's hand and smoothed her hair. "She got sick during the night, I don't know, I didn't even notice. Apparently she went down to see Madam Pomfrey sometime during the night. Professor McGonagall came up to collect some fresh clothes for her this morning. Merlin knows what got on the other ones. Sounds like the 'flu to me. She did say something about her stomach feeling funny last night, come to think of it. Now if you'll excuse me."

+000+000+

"She'll be fine, Ron." Harry sounded tired. He poured treacle onto his porridge and stirred it around dully.

"Don't you think it's odd that we can't even go in and see her?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really, not if she does have the 'flu. She's probably puking all over."

Ron looked down at the greyish, lumpy half-liquid in his bowl. "Thanks for that, mate." He pushed his breakfast away.

"Cheers," Harry said glumly, spooning up his own meal with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Ron frowned at his friend. "What's up with you, eh? Don't tell me you're still on about that Malfoy thing?"

"What?" Harry looked up at Ron in momentary confusion. "Oh, no, I was thinking about the team, actually." He looked down again.

"Oh." Ron swallowed nervously.

"I'm going to have to find a replacement." Harry was watching a drip of treacle slowly making its way down the side of the pitcher.

Ron was stunned. "You're going to replace me? I mean, I know I'm no Wood, but cripes, Harry, we haven't even had our first game yet and--"

Harry gave Ron a mixed look of confusion and disbelief. "What are you talking about? I mean Katie! I can't count on her being well in time for the game, and if I have to bring on a substitute, I need them to at least get in a couple of practices with us before."

"Oh, right, I knew that," Ron bluffed.

"Ron, you've got to get more confidence in yourself," Harry admonished him, suddenly shoveling up a huge spoonful of porridge and downing it with gusto.

+000+000+

"What defensive strategies do you have at your disposal if you are caught without a wand in the presence of a Dark wizard?" Snape glared at the class from where he was standing at the front of the room, stiff-backed and with arms folded across his chest.

No one ventured a guess. They were all so used to Hermione's hand shooting into the air at the first whiff of a question that they were a little at a loss as to what they were supposed to do in her absence.

"No one?" Snape's contemptuous gaze grazed over the Gryffindors, mentally skipping over the reason for the empty seat between Potter and Weasley, and came to a rest on Draco, where it turned challenging.

"Wandless magic, sir?" Draco raised his eyebrows in a haughty gesture. He had also been allowed to have a go at Snape the previous night (he had chosen to cast the Contortius, which, although uncomfortable and humiliating, was not directly painful; Snape considered that Draco had probably not had the nerve to use the Cruciatus on him). However, Snape meant to make it clear that what passed among Death Eaters did not translate into the classroom.

"Can you do wandless magic, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked with feigned surprise.

"No, sir," Draco replied, grinding his teeth and shooting Harry and Ron a deathly look.

"Then that would hardly be a great help to you, now would it?" Snape's tone was mocking.

Draco glared at Snape. "No, sir."

"Any other brilliant guesses? No?" A movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he slowly turned his head toward Potter. The pain-killers had blocked the overstimulated nerves, but there was little he could do about the stiffness. He looked directly at Harry, who was holding his hand aloft, and said, coldly, "Well, since I see that absolutely no one in this room has any clue as to what to do in such a situation--"

"Call on your friends!" Harry said loudly.

A nasty smirk found its way onto Snape's face. "Your friends, yes," he teased. "We all travel with a couple of them in our pockets, for just such an eventuality. Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn."

Malfoy sniggered along with his seat-mate, Pansy Parkinson.

"Just because not all of us have friends to help us--" Harry began, clearly trying to control his temper.

"Harry," Ron tugged at Harry's sleeve, pleading, "Harry, stop."

"You do enjoy putting your friends in harm's way for you, don't you, Mr. Potter," Snape said harshly. "Five more points from Gryffindor."

"It's others who put myself and my friends in harm's way," Harry said steadily, glancing at Malfoy.

Snape narrowed his eyes and taunted, "Like last year? Whose idea was it to undertake the trip to the Ministry?"

"Voldemort's," Harry answered boldly. Many of the students flinched at Harry's unabashed use of the name, and Draco nearly jumped out of his seat, his features becoming dark and ugly.

Snape's voice became dangerously quiet. "You should have more respect, Mr. Potter."

Harry snorted. "Respect for Voldemort? I've faced him five times, four of them without a wand. And every time, it was with the aid of others that I was able to get out alive. So yes, I do seem to travel with a couple in my pocket."

"How...touching," Snape sneered. "Deduct another five points from Gryffindor for cheek. I have the feeling, however, that you are getting a bit cocky. When you have faced him, in the past, he was in a weakened state, barely a shadow. The Dark Lord is now growing stronger by the day. You have been lucky. Now, you need to be prepared."

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms. "All right, tell me then, what would you suggest?"

"Subterfuge and treachery, two traits which I am sure a Gryffindor such as yourself would rather die than employ, can serve one well in such a situation. Although I will grant, that one might find that one has allies even in the most unlikely places."

Before anyone could think more deeply about what the professor might mean by that cryptic remark, a knock on the door redirected everyone's attention.

Professor McGonagall entered. "Severus, I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Headmaster is back." She spoke in a low, calm voice, but she looked tense, and her gaze flickered over the students.

Snape looked perturbed and, perhaps, slightly indecisive. He turned to his desk and shuffled some parchments around, as if looking for something, then turned back to the Deputy Headmistress. "Will you take the rest of the lesson, Minerva?" he said, and it sounded more like a statement than a request.

"Of course." She walked to the front of the room, her skirts rustling and leaving a faint scent of musty violets in their wake.

Snape nodded curtly, squared his shoulders, and marched out in a stately manner.

+000+000+

"Ah, Severus. Very good." The Headmaster looked up from his desk and smiled. "I was hoping that you might find the time to pop in. Have a seat." He gestured to one of the comfortable polished wood armchairs ranged before the desk. "Can I offer you some tea?"

"No, thank you, Headmaster," Snape said neutrally as he sat. He let his hands rest in his lap.

"You won't mind if I have a cup, however?" He raised his eyebrows, waited for the barely perceptible inclination of Snape's head which signalled his acquiescence, and then poured himself a cup of tea from the blue and white pot which was standing ready on the desk.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his long white beard. "How are you, Severus?"

Snape never quite knew how to respond to this, Dumbledore's standard opening. It seemed rude to respond untruthfully, yet somehow "shitty" didn't appear to him to be a much better option.

"I am unaffected by disease," he finally said, giving Dumbledore to know that that was about the best that he could do at the moment.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I am quite glad to hear that. One's health is so very important." He leaned forward and stirred his tea with a dainty silver spoon, then tapped off the drops of liquid against the rim of the china cup, making a pleasant clinking sound.

By unspoken agreement, Snape waited until Dumbledore had worked his way through the pleasantries. It was not just the form which the elder wizard was standing on; the pause gave them both time to collect their thoughts, estimate the other's mood, plan how to extract and present their information.

Dumbledore lifted the teacup to his lips, holding the saucer beneath to catch any drops. He slurped a mouthful of the hot liquid off the top. Snape suppressed the urge to cringe.

"Minerva reported to me that there was an incident in my absence," Dumbledore began, now keeping his piercing blue eyes trained on Snape.

"Yes, Headmaster." Snape exhaled the breath he had unconsciously been holding and launched into his briefing. He kept his face and voice neutral and impassive. "Death Eaters. One, possibly two, entered the castle at approximately one a.m. Point and method of entry as yet undetermined. Entry to four dormitories in three Houses was secured, from each of which one student was overpowered and rendered unconscious. The students were transported, probably by means of a portkey which the intruder or intruders had prepared beforehand, to a site near the English border. There, they were brutally assaulted. They were returned, again most likely by portkey, to the lane outside the Hogwarts grounds this morning shortly before six a.m." He stopped speaking abruptly. Minerva would have informed Dumbledore of what happened from that point.

Dumbledore held Snape's eye for several seconds. It became unnecessary for him to say that he had been present during the assault.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "I will of course need you to find out how the Death Eater or Eaters were able to bypass or override the security measures."

"Yes, Headmaster." His mouth twisted downward. To an observer, it might have appeared that he found the assignment distasteful. In actuality, his reaction betrayed the physical revulsion which he felt at having, albeit at a distance, mentally revisited a portion of the previous evening.

"Was there any attempt to extract information from the abducted students? Any point at all to the action?" Dumbledore sounded weary; sadly hopeful that, perhaps, Severus might show him some rhyme from amidst the immensity of the unreasonableness.

"No. None," Snape answered curtly.

Dumbledore nodded; he had obviously expected no more. He seemed pained as he posed his next question. "And young Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes," Snape confirmed. "It was counted toward his initiation."

Dumbledore nodded again, his lids falling closed and his forehead contracting in a mass of furrows. "So young..." he murmured. "But perhaps..." He paused, looking for all the world as if he had fallen asleep, his chin hovering just above his chest.

Then, suddenly, he became alert again and pushed his chair back from his desk. "Well. I supposed I had better get down to the Hospital Wing. I hear that Miss Turpin in particular is in a very bad way."

Snape stood; no comment was necessary on his part. He knew quite well what Venalle had done to the Turpin girl, at least during the last quarter of an hour of her torture. He wondered, in a detached and clinical way, whether her mental state would allow her to continue her studies in any form. He waited as Dumbledore came around his desk, holding his arm out in a curve, as if he were embracing an invisible companion.

The Headmaster stopped next to Snape and placed his good hand lightly on the Potion master's forearm. It might have been pure coincidence that he was touching the spot where the Dark Mark was hidden under the Death Eater's black sleeve.

Had it been anyone else, Snape would have recoiled at the touch. But instead, he raised his own hand and laid it firmly over the elderly one.

"Severus..." Dumbledore said, looking steadily into the other man's eyes. "Is there still love?"

As always, the question discomfited Snape, but he recognized its importance, both to Dumbledore personally, and as a re-affirmation of Snape's allegience. "There is, sir," he replied, returning the look without flinching.

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly. "And when I am gone...?" he asked softly.

"Then I will be gone as well," Snape said flatly.

+000+000+

"Miss Granger." Dumbledore pulled up a chair next to Hermione's bed and smiled at her kindly. "I am certainly glad to see you, although I regret very much that it must be here."

Hermione felt at her throat to make sure that her robe was buttoned up properly. "Thank you, Headmaster," she said, trying not to be nervous. A few hours ago, she had been impatient to talk to him, tell him what Voldemort had done, but now, oddly, as she gained more temporal distance from the events, they were becoming more real to her, more set in her memory as part of her life, and thus more intimate and personal; and at the same time, the actual details were becoming more foggy.

She knew that she had been taken from her dormitory late at night, but she couldn't begin to guess what time it had been; this bothered her. Surely she should have been able to tell from the amount of moonlight in the room what time it was. She knew that when she had regained consciousness, she had been lying on her back on a table or stretcher, but she couldn't remember, for example, what the ceiling had looked like; had there been tiles? Plaster? It had been brownish, perhaps; or maybe that had just been a result of the poor light. What had been the light source? She couldn't remember! She fretted that she would turn out to be a very poor witness indeed.

"I do not wish to burden you any further than necessary," Dumbledore was saying. "I am afraid that any condolences I can offer at this point will sound woefully inadequate. Nevertheless, let me assure you that I feel quite responsible for what happened. I will do my utmost to assure that such a grievous attack never occurs again."

Hermione nodded. She wasn't sure that she felt very comforted by Dumbledore's words, even though she knew he meant them sincerely.

"Madam Pomfrey assures me that you are physically quite well," he continued, "in no small part due to an extraordinary display of innate magical defense on your part."

"I--" Hermione faltered, unsure what the truth of the matter was. "I don't think I did anything special, Professor."

"No?" he prompted her.

"I don't know... Madam Pomfrey said I must have protected myself somehow, and that's why I didn't get hurt any worse. But, sir...?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's brow furrowed and she looked into the Headmaster's face. "Sir, I don't think that he tried anything."

Dumbledore's eyebrows went up slightly. "Who? Lord Voldemort?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, sir. The Death Eater." She couldn't actually bring herself to say, '--who raped me,' so she hoped that Dumbledore understood. "I mean, he did use the Imperius once, so that he--" She felt an icky, nauseous roiling in her stomach, and she looked down at her hands. "So that he could get it over with," she mumbled. "But the others..." she continued, whispering now in a horrified voice. "They were tortured, actually _tortured_. The Cruciatus and the Laughing Hex and... Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at Dumbledore again, pleading with him, "I tried to pay attention, I tried to remember it all so that I could tell you, but I couldn't, it's all gotten mixed up, and he was--"

"Shh, Miss Granger, that's all right," Dumbledore soothed her. "No one expects anything. As I said, I am quite pleased simply to have you back among us. However, if there is anything else that you would like to tell me, I am sure it would be useful."

Hermione swallowed down her tears and sat up straight, trying to be objective again. "Well, I know this sounds crazy, but at first, I thought it might be Draco."

"Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, I know it can't have been, though, because he doesn't have dark hair, and this one had such dark hair on the backs of his hands--" A sudden memory of the narrow hands sprinkled with short black hairs, the bones prominent, grasping the wand pointed at her throat--

"Miss Granger?" the Headmaster said gently.

"Yes," she whispered hoarsely, "sorry, I just..." She looked at him again and continued, "Harry thinks that Malfoy's a Death Eater, and I just thought, it seemed like he didn't really want to hurt me, but he did after all, so it doesn't really matter." She looked down again. "It wasn't him."

"I am very glad to hear that," Dumbledore said, and Hermione believed him. "Is that all, then?"

"Yes-- No, wait!" The most important thing, and she'd nearly forgotten. She became focused and deadly serious. "Voldemort was after Muggleborns. All the girls he took were Muggleborn. He said he wanted us to tell the world what would happen if we didn't give in to him. But you can't give in, sir!" she exhorted him, her eyes snapping. "Don't let him shut down Hogwarts. I'm not afraid of him. He's nothing but a coward!"

"You are truly a remarkable young witch, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. But we must allow the other young ladies to decide for themselves how they wish to proceed. It may be that one or the other will insist on bringing the school governors into the investigation, or, indeed, the press."

Hermione shook her head. "We already decided not to make it public. Well, Oonagh and I agreed to go along with what you say," she corrected herself. "Sandy didn't want anyone to know, period. And Lisa..." Her voice trailed off, and her expression became pained. "Have you seen her yet, sir?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I am speaking to you first. However, I am aware that Miss Turpin is in no state to be making any decisions at the moment." He also seemed pained by this fact. "Miss Granger, I hesitate to impose upon you, knowing that you have been through quite an ordeal yourself, but I would like to ask you to help Miss MacDermott, Miss Ploppe, and Miss Turpin to get through this. You have more experience than they in dealing with Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters."

Hermione was taken by surprise. She didn't feel in any way qualified to offer any sort of help to the other girls; she certainly didn't feel 'experienced' in dealing with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and she most certainly had never been the victim of a sexual assault before, nor had she known anyone who had. But she found herself nodding and saying something about trying her best.

+000+000+

"I've brought you notes from our classes." Ron plunked himself down on the foot of Hermione's bed.

Hermione gave him a nervous smile. "Thanks." She pulled the blanket up more tightly around her body. She had requested that her blue tracksuit be sent down, which was much more comfortable for lounging around in than the school uniform which Professor McGonagall had provided. She actually felt well enough to go back to her own room tonight, but had decided to spend the night on the ward. Lisa was still largely unresponsive, and Sandy kept bursting into tears. Oonagh had confided in Hermione that she wasn't able to listen to her anymore, and had gone back up to the seventh-years' dorm after dinner. Hermione, mindful of what Dumbledore had asked of her, didn't feel that she should leave Lisa and Sandy alone.

"So you feeling better?" Ron asked hopefully, peering at her face. "You're still looking a bit peaky."

"Twenty-four hour thing," she assured him. They had agreed to say that she had the 'flu, as that rumour already seemed to popped up of its own accord. "I'll be back to normal tomorrow," she said, thinking at the same time that she'd never be back to normal.

"Good," Ron said, nodding his head several times. He smiled at her, then looked around, obviously at a loss as to what to say.

"How were they?" Hermione asked, trying to help the conversation along.

"Sorry? How were what?"

"Classes."

"Oh, right, uh, fine, I guess." He shrugged.

Hermione smiled politely. "Good."

There was a silence. Ron cleared his throat several times and watched as Madam Pomfrey walked over to where Sandy was lying, curled up on her side, crying.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked, trying to direct Ron's attention away from the other girl.

"Hm?" Ron's head snapped back toward Hermione. "Oh, er, he's tracking Malfoy on the map." He shrugged. "Seems he keeps popping on and off."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "Ron," she asked, trying to remain calm. "Was he on the map last night?"

"Malfoy? No clue. Hey, what's with her?" He jabbed his thumb in Sandy's direction.

"I think she has the 'flu, too," Hermione said, trying to sound unconcerned. "Ron, can you find out for me, about Malfoy? Whether he was on the map last night?"

"Oh, not you, too," Ron groaned. "I thought you didn't think Malfoy was a Death Eater!"

"I don't," Hermione said. "Of course I don't. But that's why-- Oh, never mind," she said, irritated. That's why she wanted to know if Harry had seen Malfoy on the map last night. Because if he had, then he couldn't possibly have been...wherever it was that they had been. One more thing to add to the long list of things that Ron would never understand. Only this time it wasn't because he was so dense; this time it was because she could never, ever tell him about it.

+000+000+

"What do you want?" Draco Malfoy leaned against the doorway of Snape's office, hands in his pockets and a very put-upon look on his face.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Snape said sharply, glaring at the boy from behind his desk. "Come in and close the door."

Malfoy lazily stood away from the door frame and flicked his wand behind him, so that the door swung shut with a bang.

Snape stood up and swept out into the middle of the room. "Let us get one thing straight," he snapped.

"And what would that be?" Malfoy sounded bored.

Snape tossed his hair back out of his face and stood his ground, arms crossed over his chest. "I am your professor and Head of House! I demand that you give me the respect of the title."

"I didn't see you doing much demanding of respect last night," Malfoy said with unfeigned disgust. "You practically coddled that Mudblood; it was pathetic, really," he sneered.

"I did as our Master demanded, which, need I remind you, you very nearly did not."

"It was just disgusting, having to touch a Mudblood." Draco shuddered in an exaggerated manner.

"You may be called upon to do many things which you find distasteful. I have pledged to your mother to help get through them, as I did last night."

"You're talking about my assignment, aren't you," Draco said, now swinging his wand carelessly about.

"I am, yes," Snape said.

"Well, I don't need your help with that," he said scornfully. "I already have my own plans."

"Like the necklace? That was pathetic," Snape spat.

"That was just a test," Draco said dismissively. "I've got a better one."

"No doubt equally amateurish and prone to failure," Snape scoffed. "If you had just let me know about the necklace, I could have guaranteed that it got to Dumbledore's desk, at least."

"I told you, I was just testing something with that," Draco said impatiently. "And it worked just as I'd planned."

"You _planned_ on sending Miss Bell to St. Mungo's indefinitely?" Snape jeered.

Draco frowned, annoyed. "I don't know why you have such little confidence in me. Didn't I figure out how to let Nott in last night?" His eyes flicked to Snape and away again, and then he smiled to himself, a self-satisfied smirk.

"I thought it must have been you," Snape said. "How did you do it?"

Draco shrugged. "It was easy, really," he said, obviously pleased with himself. "When we were Summoned, you had to raise the ward around the grounds to allow our Marks to pass through the gate; he was waiting outside, invisible. I just had to make sure to take long enough going through to let him pass in at the same time. The passwords to the Houses were easy. Had Crabbe beat them out of a couple of first years," he gloated.

"You imbecile!" Snape thundered, and Draco's face instantly dropped at his mentor's obvious displeasure. "Have you any idea what might have happened, had anyone caught on? You would have exposed yourself, and not only you, but me! You may think you are held in some sort of favour by the Dark Lord, having been allowed to take the Mark at such a young age, but he is just using you to get back at your father! You mean nothing to him! I, on the other hand, in my position, with the trust the Headmaster places in me, am of crucial importance to the success of the Master's entire plan! If Dumbledore were to find out that I was part of last night's adventure, you can be sure that I would be out on my ear, and you would be out a protector! I can only help you if I am here, with you! You absolute, utter fool!"

Draco now seemed to be fighting back tears, whether of anger or chagrin was hard to tell. "I never asked for this!" he shouted back, his voice now raw with emotion. "I never asked to be born the son of Lucius Malfoy! But I'm also the son of Narcissa Black, and you swore an oath to her to help me and protect me! Only I don't think you want to help me! You just want to strengthen your own position with the Dark Lord! You're getting old and weak, and your heart isn't really in it anymore, and you're just trying to take the glory from me, so you don't have to do anything yourself!"

Snape laughed, shortly, an ugly bark. "My heart. I have no heart, you're right about that much. Only you, Draco, you do." His tone became softer as he stepped closer to Draco. "You have someone in your life whom you love very much: your mother. As long as you have that, you will never truly belong to the Dark Lord."

"Are you telling me I have to hate my mother now? Is that the next test of my loyalty?" Draco challenged.

"No, I am not," Snape said quietly, and Draco thought he sounded eerily like Dumbledore just at that moment. "Although, it may well turn out to be the ultimate determiner of your loyalty."


	5. Chapter 5: First Day Back

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 5**

**First Day Back**

Hermione pulled on her black stockings underneath her Hogwarts uniform. They were woollen and they itched, but the castle was drafty and cold, and she had double Potions down in the dungeons today. It was Monday, her first day back in classes since Halloween. She had actually only missed the one day, but she had butterflies in her stomach like she had had on her first day at Hogwarts. Would anyone notice anything different?

Her roommates had been satisfied with the 'flu story, and hadn't enquired further, but Hermione had nonetheless avoided being in the room with them as much as possible over the weekend. She'd waited this morning until they had already gone down to breakfast before getting up. She didn't have much of an appetite, anyway.

She had spent the weekend basically holed up in her room, or hiding out in the library, ostensibly catching up on the work she'd missed on Friday. She didn't have any outward bruises, but she felt that there had been a change wrought in her, and that this was somehow visible. She'd flown over Harry's skimpy notes (Ron's had been simply illegible), mentally correcting his spelling and generally tutting at their poor quality. Honestly, if it weren't for her, they would never have passed any of their classes.

Except for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hermione allowed. There, Harry obviously excelled, and his notes showed this. Whereas in his other classes, he had clearly not really been paying attention and had simply copied down entire sentences that he'd heard, regardless of their import (_Today we shall be discusing charms efecting the temperture, I hope you will find that a welcome exercice on such a cold day...Needles can be particulerly tricky as can any small metal objects you must ? end up with cold and silver)_, his notes from DADA were different: short, concise, succinct (albeit still riddled with spelling and grammar errors; grrr). _'Defence strategies with no wand: Wandless magic (not many can do it) -- Help from others (look for unlikely alleys) -- Tricks (pride and honour dont matter only surviveing)'_ Although she puzzled for a bit over the 'alleys', she found the ideas, in the end, interesting, and wondered whether everything was directly from Snape's lesson, or whether Harry had embellished with a bit of his own material.

Would any of that had helped her on Hallowe'en? Hermione couldn't help wonder. Attempting to skirt the actual events in her mind, she had considered: Wandless magic...although Madam Pomfrey was convinced she'd done it, Hermione knew, deep down, that that simply had not been the case. She could cast non-verbal spells, but her magic was still consummately bound to her wand. It was still, of course, within the realm of possibility that she could have unconsciously conjured some sort of protection, but she didn't think so.

What about help from others? Maybe, if she had called out to the other girls, if they had been able to join forces...with all those Death Eaters standing their sibilant vigil? she considered dubiously; they wouldn't have gotten far. The other Death Eaters... Suddenly, something occurred to Hermione. Who had the other Death Eaters been, those who hadn't actually participated? Maybe Draco, or Snape, had been among those cloaked figures ringing the room. But if so, why hadn't they come to the girls' aid? Would they have done anything if she had called out to them by name? It was too late, now, of course, but if she were ever in such a situation again... Unlikely allies, indeed they would have been.

And what about tricks? Fighting dirty? Oonagh had scratched and bitten like a wildcat. A wild Gryffindor. She at least could hold her head high and display her wounds with pride. What had Hermione done? She had lain there and let him... She felt the now all-too-familiar unpleasant queasy feeling gripping her gut and put her hands over her ears as, as if she could somehow press the memory down, contain it, keep it from spreading its cancerous tendrils throughout her body. Shoving Harry's notes away, she had pulled over her Arithmancy textbook and tried to concentrate on the numbers. Sterile, unemotional numbers. They always made sense.

She hadn't had much trouble keeping out of Harry and Ron's way over the past few days, as wrapped up as they were with Quidditch practice, and Harry now with his new obsession with Malfoy. Ron had sat next to her at dinner on Saturday, but she'd been all too aware of his body next to hers, and had ended up being gruff and curt to cover her discomfort, and he'd retreated to the opposite bench the following day.

She felt so bad for him (for him! when she was the one who had been violated!), since she couldn't even tell him why she was being so standoffish, and she could tell that he was disappointed and confused by her behaviour. It was just something she'd have to get over herself, she supposed.

Sandy had also returned to her dorm over the weekend; the 'flu was her excuse as well, since she also didn't have any physical marks. Hermione had seen her at meals, sitting in a huddle of Hufflepuffs, who seemed to be very concerned about her. She had still looked puffy-eyed, but she had smiled a couple of times with her friends and even caught Hermione's eye once and given her a shy smile.

Oonagh's facial bruises had faded (Hermione wondered about the scars on her body), but she seemed to have borne them with a certain pride. Hermione had heard what she had told the others in the common room, and it was the closest to the truth of anything: she said she'd been attacked by a cloaked figure late at night on her way back to the dorms, and that she'd had to fight him off without her wand. Speculation was running high among the other Gryffindors as to the identity of the attacker, with the hottest contender being Grubb, an asocial seventh-year Slytherin; Filch, oddly, was a close second, perhaps due to Oonagh's description of the man's smell and her denigrating comments as to his physical prowess. It seemed, however, that in Oonagh's version, she had escaped with her defenses unbreached, so to speak, so it appeared that even she was not willing to publicly expose herself.

Lisa was still in the infirmary; Hermione promised herself that she'd go and visit her later in the afternoon. Maybe she could get Oonagh or Sandy to come, too.

Hermione hadn't heard anything further from the Headmaster about a possible investigation, and she supposed, realistically, that she wouldn't. The Aurors already knew that there were Death Eaters at large, and that they were committing crimes. She and the other girls couldn't possibly identify any of them, nor could they say where they had been held. At best, a file had been opened, or, more likely, just a one-line note added to an already burgeoning file of unsolved Death Eater cases.

Hermione shouldered her school-bag and paused; here, in her room, was where it had all begun, where she had seen the first Death Eater. There had actually been a Death Eater, here, in her dorm, standing next to her bed. The reality of it hit her for the first time. She got a panicky feeling in her chest and burst out of the dorm onto the stairs, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to the common room. A second- or third-year boy was there, trying to finish a homework assignment before the first period, and he looked up, startled, as the Gryffindor prefect ran past, her frizzy, untamed hair flying behind her.

+000+000+

When she arrived at the classroom, Harry and Ron were already there. Harry had his parchment out and his quill ready, but his head was bowed and he didn't look up when Hermione slid into her seat on the other side of Ron.

"Hi, Ron," she whispered, hurriedly pulling out her book and note-taking materials. Her heart was still pounding rapidly. She tried not to breathe so hard, so as not to draw attention to herself. She glanced at the front of the classroom, where Snape was, hands clasped before him, but he was mercifully frowning at Ernie Macmillan, who had managed to spill his ink all over the floor.

"Feeling better?" Ron asked undertone.

"I'm fine," Hermione said quickly. "What's with him?" She indicated Harry, who was staring absent-mindedly at the desk.

Ron shrugged and said, "Quidditch," as if that explained everything.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Snape, nervousness knotting her stomach. Her first class back would have to be with him, she thought. And Malfoy as well. Two potential Death Eaters. Two potential witnesses to her pain. Snape was regarding the incoming students coolly, as usual, but hadn't yet looked in her direction. She sneaked a glance over her shoulder, where Draco sat ensconced among Slytherins in the back row. He was looking right at her, his face contorted in disgust, whispering something to Pansy, who smirked knowingly. Hermione looked away quickly, her face growing hot. But of course he was probably saying something about Harry, she chided herself. Draco hadn't been there on Hallowe'en. He wasn't a Death Eater. She had to avoid thinking that everyone was talking about her. No one could see what had happened, she reassured herself firmly.

The Potions master glared at Dean and Seamus as they dashed in seconds before the bell toned indicating the start of the lesson. "Today," he began immediately, staring at a spot on the back wall, "we shall be discussing non-physical forms of attack." His eyes whipped down to Neville, who was hunched over his desk. "Longbottom, I wasn't aware that you had an eidetic memory."

Neville raised his head slightly to look at the professor. "S- sorry, sir?" he squeaked.

"It means a photographic memory," Hermione hissed out of the corner of her mouth, then cringed in anticipation of the deduction of points.

But Snape must not have heard her, since he didn't even glance in her direction, but continued speaking to Neville, carefully enunciating every word. "Why aren't you writing this down."

"Yes, sir," Neville gulped, and started scratching away furiously on his parchment with his quill. Everyone else did likewise.

Snape raised one eyebrow at the flurry of scribblings, and then continued. "Non-physical attacks may not even be recognized as being aggressive until it is too late. Examples?" he barked.

Hermione's hand shot into the air, closely followed by Harry's and Malfoy's.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Snape drawled, clearly taking pleasure in ignoring the Gryffindors.

"Imperius," Draco tossed out with an authoritative tone.

Snape appeared to consider this, then nodded grudgingly. "Under certain circumstances, yes. Elaborate."

"The Imperius can be used to plant an order before the start of hostilities, in order to gain an advantage or initiate a surprise attack, or to control a weak opponent over a longer period of time without the enemy suspecting." Draco smirked.

"Five points to Slytherin," Snape acknowledged. "However, I remind you that we are here to learn about _defending_ ourselves against Dark magic, not how to _employ_ it. The Imperius might indeed be used against one of our _allies_," he placed particular emphasis on the word while narrowing his eyes at Malfoy, "in which case we should be aware of changes in behaviour or habits, so that we may identify a potential problem early and nip it in the bud."

Draco rolled his eyes and tapped the feather of his quill impatiently against his parchment.

Seamus grinned and whispered, "Constant vigilance," in a remarkably apt imitation of their fourth-year teacher, 'Professor Moody'.

"Did you have something to add, Mr. Finnigan?" Snape asked, snapping his head around to glare at the Gryffindor.

Seamus immediately put on a straight face. "Oh, erm, yeah, I was just saying we've got to be constantly vigilant. For Dark magic. Like you said." It looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek so as to avoid laughing.

"You won't find it so funny when you are on the wrong end of a wand pointed at your pathetic excuse for a brain," Snape snarled. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Seamus grimaced and bowed his head to his notes again.

Snape turned away from the Gryffindor side of the room and continued. "In addition to the Imperius, there are of course other spells to control the mind. Such as...?"

Once again, Hermione's hand was the first one up. Harry considered a moment, and then raised his hand as well. Malfoy languidly perked one finger up.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Snape inquired.

"Obliviate, Sleep, Confound, Depress, Demoralize, Mania, Hypnos, and Id Extraction," Draco reeled off in quick succession.

Snape nodded, obviously favorable impressed this time. "Ten points to Slytherin." He immediately rounded on Harry. "Mr. Potter?"

Not fazed in the least by the sudden call to speak, Harry responded, "Depress and Demoralize don't actually give any degree of control over the mind and are easily countered by Cheer or Exhort. And you forgot Nightmare, Hallucinate, and Suggest."

"I didn't forget, Potter," Draco spat venomously. "I was leaving some for the rest of you slobs."

Hermione waved her hand insistently, both hoping to deflect attention from Harry and now slightly annoyed that she was being overlooked, but Snape seemed intent on ignoring her. Instead, he said, "Very thoughtful of you, Mr. Malfoy, but on your N.E.W.T., you will not receive points for leaving some answers for the others. Be as thorough and precise as possible."

"Yes, sir," Draco grumbled.

+000+000+

"Hey, Hermione, wait up!" Ron and Harry dashed down the hall after their friend, who had just set a Hogwarts record for quickest departure from a classroom.

Harry pulled on the sleeve of her robe to get her attention and slow her down. Torn between a desire to flee human contact and a need to vent her frustration, the frustration won out.

"Ooh, he makes me so mad!" she fumed, stepping aside to let the other students pass.

"Who; Malfoy?" Harry asked.

Hermione frowned and shook her head. "No, silly; Snape!" She stomped her foot. "He purposely ignored me all lesson!"

"You should be grateful," Ron said. "You're the only Gryffindor he didn't take any points from."

"He was just trying to give his own House more points," Harry reasoned with her. "He knew if he called on you, you'd have the right answer."

"That's right," Ron agreed. "Dirty cheat. He didn't even give Harry any points for his answers, but he was practically tripping over himself to give Slytherin points."

"Yes, but I'm sure he was ignoring me on purpose!" Hermione insisted. "It's like I wasn't even there!"

"Looking for attention from Snape now, are we?" Ron asked suspiciously. "Geez, Hermione, wanting to be top of the class is one thing, but..." He trailed off, giving her a skeptical eye.

"Oh, never mind!" Hermione stormed off.

Ron raised his eyebrows and looked at Harry. "Touchy," he commented.

Harry shrugged. "Girls."

+000+000+

Snape retreated to his office before the last Hufflepuff had even finished packing up his schoolbag, so eager was he to get away from the images of Malfoy and Granger, the lingering auras of their presence in his classroom. And it was _his_ classroom. Fifteen years he'd had to wait, wait for the job that should have been his from the start. All the others had been amateurs, poseurs. Gilderoy Lockhart: Good god, what had the old man been thinking. Only one who practiced the Dark Arts could truly understand them; only he, Severus Snape, was supremely qualfied for the position of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Need a good locksmith? Find a thief.

Malfoy's impertinence had increased by leaps and bounds in the past week; whether that was a result of him getting a big head because of the Dark Lord's assignment, or whether it was because he had revised his view of his fellow Death Eater in light of his 'performance' on Hallowe'en, Snape was not entirely sure. Either way, it had to end. The youth had obviously not taken their earlier conversation to heart. Snape had had to bite his tongue more than once in order not to deduct points from the Slytherin prefect. Perhaps he should do so after all, he considered; the Dark Lord did not lose followers by applying extreme punishments. On the contrary, the more often he Crucio'd his Death Eaters, the more intimately he bound them to him. But that was just one of his problems.

The Granger girl was the other. He had avoided looking at her so hard that it felt like there was an after-image of her negative space burned into his brain. It had been a long time, perhaps too long, since he had been so closely and personally involved in the activities of the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had been wise, in a twisted way, to insist on his participation. Repeated acts of violence deadened one's emotions. He was feeling something akin to...guilt? He shuddered. It was a nasty, unpleasant feeling.

+000+000+

That afternoon, Hermione trekked down to the Hospital Wing on her own. She'd gone to the Hufflepuff dorms to see if Sandy would go with her, but one of the other Hufflepuffs had turned her away at the common room door, saying that Sandy wasn't feeling well. Oonagh had said she might drop in on her own after dinner. Hermione wasn't fooled. They didn't want to be confronted with Lisa right then; their own psychological wounds were too fresh. Not that Hermione's had scabbed over at all yet, either, but she also didn't feel right about abandoning Lisa like that.

There were a few other students in the infirmary when she entered: some Slytherins were visiting one of their Housemates who had fallen victim to a hex gone awry and was currently sporting two chicken legs frowing out of his forehead; a girl from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team was recovering from a fall suffered during practice earlier in the week; and in the Quarantine Zone back in the corner, a second-year was miserably sitting out a bout of the measles.

Lisa was sitting up in bed, a piece of parchment spread out on her lap, on which she would make a note from time to time. Hermione went over to her bed and sat down next to her.

"Hi," Hermione greeted her.

Lisa looked over at her out of the corner of her eye, but didn't say anything.

Hermione looked at the parchment on her lap. It looked like a grid with letters in it. "Is that a Wizard's Crossword?" Hermione asked with interest. "I like to do them, too, but I'm better with numbers," she said, smiling.

Lisa leaned forward so that her long blond hair formed a curtain between her and Hermione, and carefully filled something in on the parchment.

After a bit, Hermione asked, "How are you feeling?" When Lisa did not show any sign of having heard her, Hermione continued, "I bet you're sick of having people ask you that. Like you're going to say you're fine or anything," she added bitterly. Then, thinking that might sound rude, she corrected herself. "I mean, you look fine. Much better than you did then. Madam Pomfrey's a genius at fixing you up. I don't hurt at all anymore. Oonagh and Sandy look good, too." Not normally being one to babble, but deciding she would have to be the one to keep the conversation going, she plunged onward. "We all went back to classes today. I don't think anyone could tell. Did someone bring you your homework?"

She waited a moment, to give Lisa a chance to answer, and was just about to say something else when the other girl nodded her head slightly, once. Encouraged by this sign of communication, Hermione nevertheless didn't want to play it up too much. "Good," she said. "Do you want me to show you what we did in Transfiguration today?" she offered. "It's kind of fun, but it's hard to do if you don't see someone else do it first. The idea is also really clever. It looks like a Summoning charm, but actually what you're doing is transfiguring air into birds. Now, first of all, the air has to be moving, so you can only do it if it's windy, or you can blow really hard and then right away say the incantation before the air stops moving. It's kind of tricky. I was the only one who could do it," she couldn't resist adding. "Are you ready?"

She looked at Lisa to make sure she was watching; after all, it was a nice piece of work. Then she took a deep breath, exhaled in an upward plume, and with the last bit of air in her lungs, said, "_Aera Avia_!" Three yellow canaries materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, and started flying around the bed. Hermione grinned. "I always get canaries; I don't know why. Professor McGonagall did hummingbirds and chickadees and titmice. She says it has to do with the way you hold your wand, but I haven't quite got the hang of that part yet. Do you want to try?"

Lisa watched as a canary alighted on the bed frame and cocked its pretty head at her, then took off again to join its fellows. Hermione sighed. She had no idea how to get through to Lisa. She was no expert in these things.

"Hi, Hermione! Hi, Lisa!" a cheerful voice called out. Hermione looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see Oonagh walking down the ward.

"I thought I'd better come by now," the older Gryffindor said. "After dinner's our study group for N.E.W.T.s." She pulled up a chair on the other side of Lisa's bed. "How're you doing, Lisa? Doing crosswords, I see. Nice to keep the mind sharp." She smiled, waiting for a response, but Lisa did not even look at her.

Oonagh frowned. "She still doing that?" she asked Hermione somewhat impatiently.

Hermione nodded and shrugged helplessly.

"Oy, Lisa!" Oonagh snapped her fingers in front of Lisa's face a few times. Lisa flinched back.

"See, she is listening," Oonagh said to Hermione in a self-satisfied manner.

"Of course she'd listening," Hermione said, annoyed. "There's nothing wrong with her hearing, is there?"

Oonagh leaned over so that Lisa could not help but see her. "Hey! Lisa! Snap out of it!" she demanded. "You don't see me and Hermione wasting away in bed, do you? You're letting them win if you don't fight back!"

"Oonagh!" Hermione hissed, appalled at the other girl's lack of sympathy. "She was hurt worse than us!"

Oonagh eyed the Ravenclaw. "Got any good scars?" she asked suddenly. "Look, here's where the wanker burnt me." She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it down to show a red line right across her right breast. Lisa stared at the mark as if transfixed. "That one hurt like hell. I've got another one down there, but I'll spare you." She replaced her blouse and leaned back and crossed her arms, looking grim.

"Oh, God, Oonagh, that's terrible," Hermione whispered, horrified.

Oonagh jabbed her chin at Hermione. "You got off easy, though, didn't you. I'll bet you haven't got a mark on you." Her tone of voice might have indicated either jealousy or condescension. Hermione squirmed.

"I-- No, I don't have any scars. Not like you do," she agreed.

Oonagh nodded, obviously satisfied that her assumption had been correct. "You know what I think," she mused. "I think you got an old guy, like over a hundred, who was too senile or too feeble to do anything. Either that or some social reject who was so happy to be getting some action he forgot everything else."

Hermione was devastated. "How can you say that," she managed to croak. "You make it sound like nothing happened, or-- or worse, like I was nothing better than a whore, just lying there, bored, waiting for it all to be over." Her voice cracked, and she raged, trying to keep her voice down, "I was raped, Oonagh! I begged him to torture me instead! Do you understand that? I literally begged him to hurt me in any other way, rather than do that to me! I don't know why he didn't, but I wish he had." The back of her throat burned, and her eyes and nose were running now. "And you're acting like you're some sort of heroine, showing everyone your scars and bruises, saying how you fought him off. But you aren't telling anyone what really happened--"

"I would, only I agreed with what _you_ said that it was better not to tell everything!" Oonagh shot back. "I'd much rather say I survived a Death Eater attack than have everyone think Filch groped me!" she hissed, her dark eyes flashing angrily.

"That's not what I mean," Hermione said, sniffling deeply. "I mean you're making it sound like you weren't raped, too."

"If I told that part," Oonagh said in a patronizing manner, "there'd be calls for an investigation, and the school might be closed down, anyway. Ever thought of that? How many parents are going to want their kids going to a school where a rapist is wandering the halls?"

Grudgingly, Hermione granted the point. "Fine," she said, "but the only reason you and the rest of us survived is because they wanted us to. None of us did anything special, and none of us got special treatment. We all got fucked over." She held Oonagh's gaze steady and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"And we're all heroes," the older girl replied adamantly. "Even Lisa here." She patted Lisa's hand, then squeezed it. "Aren't you, Lisa."

Lisa closed her eyes, and a single tear squeezed out and ran down her cheek.

+000+000+


	6. Chapter 6: Rumours, Plans, Nightmares

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 6**

**- Rumours, Plans, Nightmares -**

Hermione retreated to the library right after dinner. There was a Quidditch practice that evening, and she knew the common room would be full of post-practice analysis and backbiting until late into the night. Harry might be well-meaning, but he had nothing on Oliver Wood when it came to being a team captain. Even a complete Quidditch naive like Hermione could see that Harry's attempts at appeasing everyone were only leading the Gryffindor team into a morass of mediocrity, hurt feelings, and second-guessing.

She was thus not surprised when she slipped back through the portrait hole just after curfew, to see several groups of students still up and involved in intense discussions, only one of which appeared to have anything to do with schoolwork, and that group was comprised of Oonagh and a few of the other seventh-years cramming for N.E.W.T.s.

Back in the corner, Cormac McLaggen was holding court to a good dozen of his classmates and younger years, and Hermione would just bet they were saying nothing good about Harry, or Ron, for that matter. At least they weren't discussing her, Hermione felt pretty sure.

In front of the fire, Ginny and Dean were in the company of two of Ginny's dorm-mates and a fourth-year boy. Hermione tried to walk through the room as naturally and purposefully as she could without catching anyone's eye, but as she approached Ginny's group, she noticed that the Weasley girl looked up, then said something to the others which caused them, too, to watch Hermione as she passed by. Hermione felt her ears grow hot, and she almost wanted to snap at them, but then figured it was better not to engage in a discussion. Most likely they were sneering at her for spending so much time in the library; or were unhappy about her last round of confiscations. She had, it was true, plucked a Cupid's Arrow right out of Romilda Vane's hand just last week. Hermione'd bet anything that Romilda had been planning on using it on Harry; some girls seemed to be willing to stop at nothing where he was concerned.

She pushed the door to her dorm open slowly, hoping that her roommates were already asleep, but she groaned inwardly when she saw Lavender and Parvati sitting on Parvati's bed, flipping through a glossy illustrated.

"Oh, there you are!" Lavender exclaimed as Hermione went to put her things away. "We're very hurt, you know, that you didn't tell us, but I guess you didn't want the press to get wind."

Hermione turned back around. "What are you talking about?"

Lavender and Parvati looked at each other and tittered. "You and Viktor Krum, of course!" Lavender said.

Hermione frowned. "What about me and Viktor?" What an old story. Why were they suddenly dragging that up?

"Only that you and he...you know, did the dirty deed," Lavender grinned naughtily.

Hermione's mouth fell open in shock. "We did no such thing! Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione, you don't have to worry about us blabbing. Although I suppose it doesn't matter now, anyway, everyone's talking about it."

Hermone stalked over to the other girls. "Just what is everyone saying?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Now don't get your knickers in a twist, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I understand completely, I mean, he is an international Quidditch player and a Triwizard Champion, and I suppose he's good-looking, too, if you like that sort of--"

"Lavender," Hermione growled. "What are people saying about me and Viktor Krum?"

"I already told you," Lavender said, slightly exasperated, "that you shagged him. Or that he shagged you. It all comes out to the same thing, doesn't it?"

"I do not have, and have never had, that kind of relationship with Viktor!" Hermione shouted. "I have no idea why anyone's coming up with that now, but whatever went on between us was over a long time ago, not that there was anything, and even if there had been, I wouldn't be discussing it with you!" Hermione felt tears welling up and fought against them hard. This was silly. There was no reason for her to cry about some childish, to say nothing of completely false, gossip.

"So there was something?" Parvati said hopefully.

"No! There was not!" Hermione stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

She leaned back against the bathroom door and let the unwanted tears come, hating herself for shedding them. She and Viktor Krum! She hadn't seen him in over a year! After the Yule Ball, she'd met him a couple of times out on the Hogwarts grounds, when he'd been able to sneak an afternoon free from training on the Durmstrang ship. And then he'd invited her and her parents to visit his family's farm in Bulgaria the following summer. He had always been very correct; sure, they'd kissed a few times, but it had all been very innocent. A flirt. No 'shagging'.

The way everyone tossed those terms blithely around: snogging, shagging, as if it were all nothing more than a bit of fun; it made Hermione feel sick in the pit of her stomach. They had no idea. They didn't know how sex could be used as a weapon, how what was supposed to be tender and good could be twisted and used as a tool for hatred. Quickly undressing, Hermione turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it and hopped in, letting the water droplets wash away the tears and mucus running down her face. She wished they could wash away the memories, too; no, not the memories; the actual events. She had briefly considered, the day after, asking to be Obliviated, but then decided it would be better for her to remember. If only so that she could be on her guard, so that it could never happen again.

When she had calmed down a bit, she washed her hair and started going over the conversation with Lavender and Parvati again in her mind. Someone was saying that she and Viktor had slept together? Was that what Ginny and her friends had been whispering about? But why now... And then an awful thought came to her. Maybe, somehow, word had got out of what had happened. A half-truth, to be sure, something like Oonagh's mysterious attacker in the halls. Something along the lines of she, Hermione, having had sex with someone, an older man. And then some dimwits who had no greater concerns than who was dating whom and what jumper to wear with what shoes had put that tidbit together with what they knew (or thought they knew) about Hermione and come up with her and Viktor having a fling.

It was just bizarre, and sick, enough that it might be true. But who could have originated such a rumour? Surely not one of the other girls. Not Dumbledore, nor Madam Pomfrey. Maybe someone had overheard something in the infirmary; there was that Slytherin hex victim who'd been there over the weekend. Had Lisa said something in her sleep? Or...Draco. Was that what he had been talking to Pansy about that morning in Defense class? She absolutely had to corner Harry and find out what he'd seen on the Marauder's Map that night.

When she finally peeked out from the bathroom a half-hour later, the lights had been turned down and all was quiet. Relieved and with a towel wrapped around her body, Hermione made her way to her quarter of the room and got out her pyjamas (a brand-new pair she'd bought in Hogsmeade on Saturday), then climbed up onto her bed. She was about to pull the curtains shut for privacy when someone stirred. Parvati stuck her head out from behind her own drawn curtains and whispered, "Hey, Hermione. Sorry about before. We didn't mean to get too personal."

"It's all right, forget about it," Hermione muttered, not wanting to get into a discussion.

"Is there anything going on, though?" Parvati continued, her voice expressing concern. "You've been acting kind of weird the past few days."

Hermione shook her head and tried to give a wan smile. "Still feeling down from the 'flu, I suppose."

Parvati nodded. "All right. Good night." She slipped back inside her curtains, and Hermione could hear the rustling of covers being adjusted and pillows being fluffed. Hermione quickly got herself ready and lay down, then extinguished the lights completely. In the darkness, her ears went on the alert, trying to distinguish any suspicious sounds from the normal sleepy-teenagers and nighttime-castle sounds. She remembered (or perhaps she only imagined that she remembered) a heavy swishing sound which had accompanied the intruder, the sound of his robes as he brushed against her curtain. She could see the window in the space where her curtains gapped apart. It was lighter now than it had been that night; or maybe it had just seemed dark to her, with that dark figure looming over her.

She turned onto her side and concentrated on reciting the Runic alphabet backwards. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off to sleep.

+000+000+

_A tall figure in a dark robe was standing over her. A man. His face was hidden in shadow, but she knew it was a man. She couldn't move, couldn't scream. He reached out a pale hand, and the black hairs on the back of it stood straight up like bristles. He kept reaching toward her, until she was sure that he must have reached right through her, but she couldn't feel anything. Then he lifted his hand, and there was something glistening red in it: a heart; her heart. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and she rolled over onto her side and retched._

+000+000+

"How have you been sleeping, Severus?" The Headmaster's tone was conversational.

Snape was holding Dumbledore's blackened hand delicately between his own two pale ones, his head bowed over it, so closely that his nose nearly touched the surface of the skin. "You should have called me earlier. The necrosis is progressing more quickly than I had anticipated." Indeed, it was not just the hand that was shriveled and black as charcoal, but the arm up to a good several inches past the wrist as well.

"It doesn't matter," Dumbledore said with a slight smile. "I shall still have time. My part is nearly complete. But you;" his brow furrowed, "it is important that you take care of yourself."

Snape grimaced without looking up. "My part is nearly played as well."

"Perhaps in this act," Dumbledore said, his concern evident, "but your exit is not meant to coincide with mine."

"Perhaps a low potency dilution of corpse flower serum," Snape murmured, then stood abruptly and went to the cabinet, moving vials and bottles back and forth.

"I had hoped," Dumbledore sighed, "I had hoped that you and Harry would find a connection."

"That was one of your less brilliant plans," Snape retorted fiercely, moving now to the workbench, a slender flacon in one hand. "He hates me and I him."

"You hated his father," Dumbledore returned quietly.

"The boy is just like him: arrogant, quick-tempered, thick--"

"Not at all like you, eh?" Dumbledore's face crinkled briefly with a hint of humour, but soon lapsed back into the tired mask it had been all evening.

"No," Snape stated without emotion. "Potter is not like me."

"No," Dumbledore echoed faintly and with regret. "He possesses a power the Dark Lord knows not..." he mumbled to himself. He looked over at the Potions master, hunched over his workbench, carefully measuring out drops of a clear, pale green liquid into a burnished metal cup. The elder wizard's face took on a pained expression, which quickly turned to blank curiosity when the other man straightened up and brought the cup over.

"Drink this, and then I will perform the counter-curse again," Snape stated.

Dumbledore took the cup and drained it, wincing slightly at the bitterness. "Would it hurt very much to put a teaspoon of sugar in?" he complained.

Snape harrumphed, then procured his ebony wand and held it over the Headmaster's arm at the point where the blackness turned light grey. Concentrating, he moved the wand in an arc as he spoke words in an arcane language much older than the Latinate spells that were taught at Hogwarts. The skin above the dead tissue glowed a healthy pink momentarily, then reverted to dull grey.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully, pulling the sleeve of his robe back over his injured limb. "I feel quite rejuvenated."

Snape grunted and stood, taking the cup back to the workbench to rinse it out.

"I don't suppose I can interest you in joining me for a drink at The Three Broomsticks?" Dumbledore inquired politely as he stood as well.

"If you insist," Snape said, his back as stiff as his words.

"Oh no, I would never insist," Dumbledore protested demurely.

"In that case, Headmaster, I would prefer to remain here."

"Very well." Dumbledore sighed as he arranged his purple-and-green robes. "I will pass on your regrets to Rosmerta, who, I am sure, will be sorely disappointed."

"Only because there's no one else foolish enough to pay the outlandish prices she charges for her Firebrandy," Snape muttered, leaning on the workbench with both palms.

Dumbledore stopped beside him and touched him on the arm with his good hand, silently begging his attention. Snape turned his head to look at him, knowing what was coming and dreading it.

"Is there still love, Severus?" the Headmaster asked with a kindly smile.

Snape closed his eyes and turned his head away. "There is duty. It will be enough."

Dumbledore tightened his grip slightly. "Duty and loyalty are admirable, but they are not enough," he contradicted sharply. "You must maintain a capacity for love, no matter how small; otherwise I will not allow you to complete this task."

"I will complete it," Snape said roughly. "I have sworn it."

Dumbledore's usual gentle manner was replaced with a sudden ferocity. "It will destroy you!" he swore, anger entering into his tone. "I will not have your soul on my conscience!"

Snape whipped his head back towards the Headmaster, his stringy black hair flying back and his face contorted with contempt. "There is no one else! I am the only one in a position to fulfill the plan, and I will do it! My soul is none of your concern!"

"It is!" Dumbledore spoke fiercely. "It is, and has been, my utmost concern; Harry has his friends, and he has love within him. That will not be destroyed, no matter what else happens. But for you, Severus, time is running short." Dumbledore was speaking urgently now, and with an undeniable authority. "Tom is pulling you ever more closely towards him. He knows that you have not been thoroughly corrupted and deadened, as Bellatrix and so many others in his ranks have been, and he is now redoubling his efforts to make you completely his; recent events leave me with no doubt about that. Your protection is wearing thin, and I fear, when I am gone, that it will crumble altogether."

"It will not matter by then; the course will have been set."

The two wizards held each other's gaze, both stubborn, one imposing, the other defiant. Then Dumbledore dropped his hand. "We will not discuss it now, but the matter is far from decided," he said.

"As you wish." Snape watched as Dumbledore turned and walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

+000+000+

_Someone was holding him. Standing behind him, pinning his arms to his sides. He tried to wrench himself away, but the grip only became stronger, as if he were caught in a Devil's Snare. He knew that if he only relaxed, he would be released, but he couldn't let himself relax; he had to fight it, had to twist and bite and kick. "Shhh, Severus, it's me," a woman's voice said softly, soothing. "It's going to be all right." He felt a great relief. It was his mother. He stopped struggling and let her embrace him; he hadn't felt her arms around him like this since he was very small. _

_He turned his head to look up at her face and saw a white skull mask, and the panic rose in him again. He struggled again, more furiously than ever, causing the arms around him to tighten like bands of steel, making him gasp for breath. He looked at the figure's face again and the mask melted away, but the face behind it was not that of his mother; it was Bellatrix Black Lestrange, and she was leering at him with red, slit-like eyes._

_AN: Next: Snape and Hermione in the same room, interacting, I promise!_


	7. Chapter 7: Realization

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**CHAPTER 7**

**- Realization -**

Hermione did not want to get up. She listened through drawn curtains as her dormmates got ready to go down to breakfast. Just as they were about to leave, Parvati knocked on Hermione's bedpost, then pulled back the dark red curtain, just enough to peek inside.

"Are you sick again?" she asked, tentatively.

Hermione didn't stir, didn't even open her eyes. "I'm all right," she murmured, her lips barely moving. "Go ahead."

"Are you sure? Do you want to see Madam Pomfrey?"

"I said I'm fine," Hermione repeated, this time with more than a hint of annoyance, although she still didn't open her eyes. She just couldn't seem to muster the energy.

"Fine," Parvati snapped curtly and flicked the curtain shut again. A moment later, Hermione heard footsteps receding and the door clicking shut.

Hermione lay still for a moment, then curled over onto her side. She had a stomachache. Probably her period coming on. Great; just what she needed on top of everything else. She reached down to feel if there was any need to summon a Blood Crystal from the sideboard, but there was nothing. She relaxed a little. Wouldn't have made sense, anyway; it had only been three and a half weeks. She was irregular, but not _that_ irregular.

Yesterday had been one huge headache; in fact, she had retired early with a pounding one. Harry had shown everyone up once again in Potions (him and his precious Half-Blood Prince...Hermione gnashed her teeth); she'd cut her finger nearly down to the bone in Herbology, and Neville of all people had been the one to have the presence of mind to cast a Stanching spell (as if she couldn't do that one in her sleep); Flitwick had praised Lavender (Lavender!) and asked her to demonstrate her Twirling Charm for the class (like there was any practical application for that); and every attempt she had made at simple conversation with Ron had been met with sneering, cold retorts.

How had everything between them changed so quickly? Hermione despaired. It had all happened on or about Halloween, she was sure, but she couldn't explain it logically. Ron hadn't heard anything about what had really happened. Things had been good between them that night; they had passed a pleasant evening together, and Hermione could have sworn there was at least a little mutual flirting going on.

Then...well, then he'd visited her in the infirmary, and although neither had really seemed to know what to say to the other, she had felt that he was worried about her; or at least, glad that she would be better soon. But then she'd spent the greater part of the weekend withdrawn, and from the start of classes on Monday, there had been some sort of invisible wall between them. She realized right away that she was the one who had thrown it up, but she was also angry at Ron for not trying harder. Some friend he was, to give up so easily. Even Harry, who was preoccupied with Quidditch and Death Eaters and Voldemort, even he was making friendly overtures toward her. She'd finally gotten around to asking him about the Map, and Harry'd said that Malfoy had been in the castle on Halloween; at least until he, Harry, had gone to bed around midnight. Not that he couldn't have snuck off after that. But that was just her paranoia talking. Of course he hadn't been there. Nor had Professor Snape. Of course not.

+000+000+

She'd also gone to see Lisa in the Hospital Wing again, and had been most disturbed to see the privacy curtain drawn shut around her bed. Lolly Drew, the second-year with the measles, had beckoned her over lethargically.

"She had a seizure," Lolly had reported hoarsely. Her face and hands were splotched with bright red patches where the spots had grown together, and her eyes were fever-bright.

Hermione's heart had frozen momentarily. "A seizure?" She sank down on Lolly's bed.

Lolly nodded and coughed delicately.

"But is she--What happened?"

Lolly had pushed herself up into a semi-reclining position. The bed adjusted beneath her automatically to support her. "It happened this morning," she had confided, her voice barely above a whisper. "Before breakfast, she started shaking all over. Madam Pomfrey saw it right away and cast some sort of calming spell on her. Then she put up the curtains and it's been like that all day. Professor Dumbledore came down a little while later. Professor Snape was here, too, and then her parents were here a little while ago. I heard them saying something about a seizure." The girl shrugged, as if to say that was all she knew.

Hermione had glanced over at the white, impassive curtains. "Is anyone in there with her now?" she asked.

Lolly shook her head.

Hermione had gotten up and walked over to the isolated bed, hesitantly listening before pulling back one of the curtains. Lisa was lying on her side with her eyes closed, the covers tented smoothly over her, as if she had simply been inserted between them. Her face was pale, and her lips were slightly parted as the air passed gently in and out.

Hermione had slipped past the curtains, into the rectangular cubicle they formed. It was eerily quiet; the usual background infirmary sounds of patients coughing, pages turning, bedsprings creaking, voices murmuring, and doors clicking open and shut, were absent. There must be a Muffling charm within the curtained-off space, Hermione had realized. Perhaps worked into the fabric of the curtains themselves.

She had stood in that white-encased oasis for several minutes, just watching the other girl sleep. If only this were all there was to life: standing still, concentrating on breathing. The enormity of life outside, in the halls of Hogwarts, seemed suddenly overwhelming. Life outside of that, in the world at large, was simply an abstraction at that point, a quantity like infinity, that could be theorized about but never truly grasped. There was no such thing as a Death Eater. No such thing as a Voldemort. No such thing as rape or power or hatred or snow or Ron's freckles or meat pies or books. Just standing and breathing in the whiteness.

+000+000+

Sluggishly, Hermione pulled herself out of bed and haphazardly threw on some clothes. It was force of habit more than anything else driving her forward that morning. What was the point of going to classes anymore, anyway? She wasn't learning anything there; no more than she could learn on her own from books, at any rate. And Defense Against the Dark Arts was the biggest waste of time of all. She'd secretly hoped, at the beginning of the year, when they'd found out that Snape would be their instructor, that he would be the one Defense teacher who would finally get down to business. Lupin had been all right, but the real threats in the world those days weren't Boggarts and Grindylows; they were their fellow wizards. But Snape seemed to be more interested in hearing the sound of his own voice than in giving them anything useful. So far, he'd been approximately as effective as the Ministry flyers advising everyone to institute watchwords and not venture out alone.

Hermione trudged up and down staircases on her way to her first class, having skipped breakfast altogether. The gong indicating the start of the first period sounded while she was still in the corridor, but, uncharacteristically, she didn't care. So she was late. So what? She lackadaisically pulled open the door to the Defense classroom and slid into an empty seat in the back row next to Harry.

Harry looked at her quickly, frowning. "Are you using a Time Turner again?" he whispered.

Hermione frowned, too, and shook her head shortly, keeping her eyes focused on the front of the room.

Snape had registered her entrance and seemed to be hesitating about something. Finally, he pressed his lips together and snapped, "Ten points from Gryffindor for tardiness, and five more for speaking out of turn, Mr. Potter," then turned away and took a few steps along the front row. He stopped short, then, in a single motion, whipped his wand out, turned to face Ernie MacMillan, and cried, "_Somnula_!"

Immediately, Ernie fell forward onto his desk and began to snore.

Barely pausing, Snape pointed his wand at Seamus. "_Confundo_!"

Millicent Bulstrode. "_Alucinor_!"

Neville. "_Nox Maris_--"

"_P-p-protego_!" Neville gulped, holding his own wand shakily aloft, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he began to groan anyway.

Snape paused, briefly, then whirled and pointed his wand at Pansy. "_Confun_--" he began, but Pansy confidently held out her own yellow wand and declared, "_Protego_," with a smirk on her face. As Snape finished the spell, though, Pansy's smirk turned into a look of mild bewilderment.

Hermione shifted uneasily in her chair, her earlier lethargy forgotten. She was clenching her own wand in her fist and saw that Harry was doing the same. She watched Snape closely, trying to anticipate his next move. His black-hung form looked taut, his narrow shoulders slightly pulled up. The image of another black-robed figure seemed to superimpose itself on the scene. Hermione was momentarily disoriented. He could have been about the same size and build. But it was too hard to tell at this distance, from this angle...she'd been lying down, he standing over her. Scales were bound to have appeared distorted.

Irritated that she was letting herself get distracted, Hermione tried to think of what she was going to do when her turn came. The usual Protection charm clearly wasn't working. When in doubt, 'run and hide' was a good strategy, she finally decided. She got ready to dive under the desk.

Snape turned in an arc, letting his wand pass over all the students not yet hexed. His black wand was extended, gripped firmly in his pale hand. Lots of people had black wands, Hermione chided herself. She glanced quickly around the room. There, see: Parvati's wand was also...no, it was more of a really dark brown.

Snape had almost reached the end of the row when, without warning, he extended his arm toward Harry and yelled, "_Subicium_!"

But just as quickly, Harry had his wand up and was shouting, "_Mens Protego_!"

Hermione looked at Harry, startled. Of course, she thought. How obvious. She mentally slapped herself for not thinking of it first. She'd been too distracted by the...the Thing.

Snape lowered his wand, a look of grudging acknowledgement on his face. "Someone wake MacMillan up," he said with undisguised disgust, before ending the hexes he had placed on the other students.

"That was pathetic," he sneered, once he had everyone's attention again. Seamus was still looking a bit dazed, and Neville a bit terrified, but, as those looks were not entirely out of character for them, no one was much worried. Snape slapped his hand down on Ernie's desk, causing him to jerk open his eyes, which had started to droop again. "You cannot block mind spells with a physical shield! How much more elementary do we have to get!" He glowered at the class for a moment, until he felt that they had been sufficiently humbled. Then he straightened up and, with a sweeping motion, caused all of the desks to move back against the walls.

As they all still had students sitting at them, this caused quite a scramble as everyone got up and out of the way as quickly as they could. Still, Neville ended up being pinned and having to be freed by Hermione.

"Partners!" Snape barked. "One of you will cast a mind spell, the other will attempt to block it with the mind protection spell. No Unforgivables--" Snape cast a warning look at Draco, "--and no casting a spell you are not _personally_ able to reverse. Most of you are capable of forgetting quite enough on your own, without having to deal with Obliviations on top of it," he added archly.

"You and me, mate," Ron said immediately, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him away from Hermione. Harry shot Hermione an apologetic look, but she just sighed and gave Neville a hand as he climbed down from the desk.

"You don't have to partner with me, Hermione," Neville said softly. "You're much better than me."

"Don't be silly, Neville," Hermione said busily. "You were very quick with that Stanching charm yesterday. Why don't you cast first, and I'll defend."

In just a few minutes, the classroom resembled Bedlam. Pansy was crouched on top of a desk, crowing like a rooster; Seamus and Dean, who had been working together, were both sound asleep in the middle of the floor. Lavender was deep in a discussion with an imaginary Centaur, Ernie was frantically attempting to end the nightmare he had induced in Susan Bones, and Blaise and Draco were doubled up with laughter; whether their mirth had a magical cause, or simply the fact that they found the entire exercise so amusing, was impossible to tell.

Neville had been patiently making attempt after fruitless attempt at putting Hermione to sleep, and Hermione was getting both bored and frustrated. She hadn't wanted to be rude to Neville, but this was truly no challenge. "Neville, at least try a nightmare," she said, a little crossly.

Neville shook his head, looking petrified. "No! I--I can't do that one!"

"Oh, honestly, Neville," Hermione said irritably, closing the distance between them. "It's '_Nox_ _Maris_' and you hold your wand like this," she said, demonstrating.

"I don't want to give you a nightmare," Neville protested weakly.

"I wouldn't worry too much, Neville," Hermione replied, well knowing that she'd be able to block his spell as easily as she had the others. "Just for a change, you know? Now." She took a couple of steps back again and held her wand aloft. "I'm ready, go ahead."

"_Nox Maris_," Neville whispered, jabbing his wand in Hermione's direction.

"_Mens Protego_," Hermione tossed out automatically, although, really, she didn't think he'd cast that properly anyway. "Again," she demanded.

Neville swallowed and glanced nervously over Hermione's shoulder. "_N-nox Ma-aris_," he stuttered, and promptly fumbled his wand.

"What's wrong with you?" Hermione said irritably.

"It's Snape," Neville whispered as he bent over to retrieve the wooden stick. "He's watching me."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. "Did you or did you not stand up to a half-dozen Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries? What's one of him compared to them?"

Neville looked as if he were contemplating this question very seriously.

+000+000+

Snape stood to the side of the room, watching the future hope of wizardkind fail miserably at their assigned task. To be sure, Potter and Granger were handily blocking everything that came their way, but then look at who their partners were: Weasley and Longbottom. How either of them had ever managed to pass their O.W.L. in this subject was a complete mystery to him.

Granger seemed to have recovered from last week's incident (he shied away from calling it an 'attack' or even an 'ordeal', since those words had unpleasant guilt associations attached to it) remarkably well. Especially when he compared her to the others.

MacDermott had been belligerent and combative with everything and everyone, and he had had no compunctions whatsoever docking her House points and even assigning her detention (to be served with Minerva, of course).

Ploppe had been a miserable wreck, bursting into tears for no reason whatsoever. If things didn't improve today, he was going to ask that she be suspended from his class until she got her emotions under control. It was really quite disturbing to the progress of the class.

Turpin, it now appeared, was a candidate for the Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungo's. Not her fault, entirely; anyone's body and mind might break down after the battery of hostile magic to which she had been subjected. The old man had even asked him for suggestions to counteract the after-effects of the Cruciatus, the Laughing Hex, and Dancing Hex which were wracking her body, but there was no simple chemical solution. A Relaxation potion had helped to alleviate the immediate symptoms, to be sure, but that wouldn't do any good in the long run; on the contrary, it would only cloud her mind further.

But Granger, aside from the one day of missed classes, had plowed on without so much as a blip on the screen. Perhaps she was just putting up a facade, or perhaps she really was that strong. Not that he thought much about the inner workings of the teenage girl's mind.

Snape recoiled now, however, at the recollection of his own initial reaction toward her at the start of the week. He should never have ignored her like that. He hadn't been trying to spare her feelings, give her special treatment. He had simply not trusted his ability to keep his own reactions in check. He had been afraid that eye contact would have revealed something to her, but of course that was ridiculous. She was no Legilimens. Such weakness on his part was not only embarrassing, but dangerous. It hadn't been Granger that night. It had been a body, a soulless construction of skin, blood, and bones. Just as it had not been he performing the act; it had been a tool of the Dark Lord, following orders, fulfilling a part in a master scheme.

The Dark Lord had been most displeased to hear at the briefing on Sunday night that Dumbledore was apparently being successful at keeping things hushed up; a few Cruciatuses later, Snape had finally been able to convince him that there was little that he, Snape, could do about it. Dumbledore wasn't about to publicly accuse the Death Eaters, and the Mudbloods themselves were, for various and fairly obvious reasons, not conducive to speaking openly about it.

And so, apart from a few childish tears, nothing much had come of the entire action. It was best put behind one, as was so much else. This hour belonged to Hogwarts' Defense Professor, in any case, and Longbottom was executing such a pitiful excuse for a Nightmare Hex that Snape could no longer hold his tongue. And now the brat had dropped his wand, to add insult to injury.

"Longbottom!" the professor thundered over the cacophony of the classroom, startling several of the other students in addition to his intended target. He stepped neatly over the inert figures of Finnigan and Thomas. "One would think, that after five years of instruction in how to hold a wand, you would have figured out by now WHICH END IS UP!" He snatched Neville's wand out of his fist and replaced it, right way round. Neville looked like he was about to cry. "Perform the hex!" Snape commanded the student, folding his arms imperiously.

Neville closed his eyes for a moment, his face gone completely white. "_Nox Maris_," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Snape didn't even register Granger reciting the Mind Protection charm, so overcome was he with rage at the inept pupil. "Are you even thinking about what you're doing?" Snape demanded, his voice shaking with barely suppressed ire. "Perform the hex!" he cried.

Neville swallowed, aware that he now had the attention not only of his most feared professor, but also of all the students not currently under the effects of a hostile spell themselves. "_Nox Maris_," he said miserably, twisting his wand in an approximation of the correct motion.

"No, no, and for the third time, no!" Snape shouted and closed his own hand over Neville's, forcing him to trace the wand movement in the air. "_Nox Maris, Nox Maris_," he shouted in time to the movements. "Why can't you get it, you feebleminded worm!"

Granger was hissing something at the unfortunate boy, but Snape wasn't listening.

"I--I'm sorry, sir," Neville ventured. "I'll practice it."

"You will do it now until you get it!" Snape insisted, beyond all reason in his fury.

"I can't, sir," Neville protested weakly. "You've seen, I just can't."

"For God's sake, it's not the Killing Curse!" He pointed his wand at Hermione. "_Nox Maris_!"

+000+000+

It was him. It was the same wand. Oh, God, it was him. The same hand extending from the black sleeve, the same pale skin, the same black hairs. It was him. It wasn't, of course. It couldn't be. But it was him. She reached her hand out to touch the wand, but she knew how it would feel: the diameter, the relief carving, the greasy surface. She hadn't even made contact with it yet when the nightmare started...

_She was lying on her back. There was a hissing sound, and she felt a panicky prickling under her arms and up her scalp. Something was touching her foot. She looked down. It was a thick, black snake, its tongue flicking out, testing its way. It wrapped itself around her leg. She tried to push it away, but although she could move her hands, she couldn't reach it. It twisted itself higher, around her calf, her thigh. Her heart was beating wildly; it was going to bite her, poison her. She had to get away. She scrambled backward, but the snake held tight, its long body trailing away in the dimness beyond. It had reached the top of her thigh and now she knew what was coming, and in horror she watched as it slipped inside her, right through her clothes. There was no pain, but she felt it filling her up, felt her uterus becoming fuller and fuller, distended, pressing on her innards, until the whole length had vanished inside her, and she felt her body rebelling, her stomach roiling against the invasion, and then she heaved and gagged as she began vomiting the reptile out._

+000+000+

"Hermione?"

She was lying on her side, panting. She felt cold and sweaty. She blinked her eyes open and saw whiteness. A sheet. A white robe.

"Hermione, you need to drink this." A glass with a milky liquid was thrust in front of her by the white-robed person. There had been a snake. A black wand. Hermione groaned and closed her eyes again. A warm hand slipped itself under her shoulders and lifted her to a semi-sitting position. "This will help against the nausea," Madam Pomfrey said. The glass was pressed to Hermione's mouth, and she allowed a sip of the sweet chalky drink to pass her lips.

"Good girl," Pomfrey said. Hermione felt the mattress underneath her rising to support her back. "Take this and drink it in small sips. You'll be all right in a few minutes."

Hermione closed her hand around the glass, and only then became aware of Harry, Neville, and Ron watching her in an anxious cluster at the foot of the bed.

"You all right?" Harry asked.

Hermione frowned and nodded, adjusting herself in the bed. "I'm all right. What--How come I'm here?" She remembered Snape pointing his wand at her, and then the realization returned to her. It had been him. She felt hot and cold and dizzy all at once.

"Snape gave you a nightmare, the great git," Harry responded bitterly. "You collapsed right there in the classroom and started puking your guts out."

Hermione's stomach growled uncomfortably in confirmation. She took another sip of the medicine and tried to remain calm. It wasn't him, it wasn't him, it wasn't him, she tried to convince herself, only half-listening to her friends.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Neville said, obviously pained. "If I hadn't been so bad at that spell, he never would've--"

"It's not your fault, Neville," Harry said angrily. "He was out to get one of us; Hermione was just unlucky to have been in his line of fire."

"You were so eager to get his attention last class, looks like you got it all right this time," Ron added darkly.

Hermione was unsure whether that was supposed to be sympathy or an accusation, but she wasn't in a frame of mind to puzzle about it at the moment.

"Is it better now, Hermione?" Madam Pomfrey asked, feeling her patient's forehead.

"Yes, thanks," Hermione said, handing her the glass back. The nausea had receded, in fact. She started to get out of bed.

"Ah, ah, you'll rest here for the remainder of the morning," the nurse said, pushing Hermione back down. "And I shall be having a word with the Headmaster about the teaching methods being used in this school. Giving students nightmares, especially after what you've been through..." She shook her head and tutted away.

"What you've been through...?" Harry looked at Hermione with a puzzled expression.

"The flu last week," Hermione explained, thinking quickly.

"Oh, right," Harry said.

"We'd...better be getting to Potions," Ron said, his eyes darting around uncomfortably, avoiding looking at Hermione.

Harry reached down and squeezed Hermione's foot through the coverlet. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head, although she really, really did want him to. She wanted to tell someone about what she thought she'd seen, what she might have remembered...or was it just part of the nightmare? At any rate, she couldn't tell Harry, because that would mean telling him about That, and that was, of course, impossible.

"No, you go on," she urged him. "Take good notes for me. And none of that stuff from the Half-Blood Prince!" she added crossly.

"Right," Harry agreed, grinning in relief that Hermione was back to her old self.

+000+000+

The wand had been the same. She was sure of it. Or...as sure as she could be. The late-night attack, the confusion, the periods of unconsciousness, the horrendous images, they all combined and fell apart again in her mind, leaving her unable to form an opinion that she had complete faith in. Surely there must be a way of being sure, of comparing the two memories, of the wand-bearer from That Night and Professor Snape pointing his wand at her in class. The Pensieve! Oh, perhaps Professor Dumbledore would let her use his Pensieve. Then she could see whether...but that would mean having to view That again, from the point of view of an observer, no less. And she was certain she would come to the conclusion that He and Professor Snape were not the same; she would find some detail to disprove the ridiculous theory that her brain was insisting upon. For there was no way, no way at all, that Professor Snape would have done...That.


	8. Chapter 8: The Truth

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 8**

**- The Truth -**

"Miss Granger, what a pleasure to see you out and about again." The Headmaster nodded congenially and leaned forward on his desk, bracing himself on one arm. The other arm remained hidden beneath the desk; Hermione knew it was the withered one.

"Thank you, Sir," she replied. She wondered briefly whether she really wanted to go through with this, but before she could consider it further, she blurted out, "I wondered if I might use your Pensieve."

Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. "I don't see why not," he nonetheless readily agreed. "To what purpose, however, if I might be so bold?"

"I want to find the truth."

Dumbledore smiled crookedly. "Ah, the truth. Not unlike a bar of soap," he reported in a typically cryptic manner.

"Sir?"

"Damned hard to get a hold of when you're in the bath," he explained.

Hermione thought about this for a moment, and then countered, "But without it, you're going to stay dirty."

Dumbledore favored her with one of his legendary twinkles. "Quite so."

Hermione decided she'd have to get a bit more specific. "I...wanted to compare two memories," she said, after taking a deep breath.

"Two of your own memories?" Dumbledore precisioned.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Sir." She swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn't press her further.

"Not that I wish to pry," he said mildly, "but this wouldn't have anything to do with what happened over Hallowe'en, would it?"

Hermione nodded mutely. Damn, there was no getting around the old man!

Dumbledore's heavy white brows came together as he fixed his gaze on a point on his desk for a moment before looking back at Hermione. "As the memories are your own, you may of course do with them as you please. However, it has been my experience that re-viewing a terrible scene such as that which you experienced, especially from another point of view, only serves to heighten the horror, not lessen it."

"That's not why I want to see it." In fact, she did not want to see it again at all. She had no doubt that it would be doubly horrible the second time around. But she needed to be sure. She needed that small security. To her, who had always been so sure of everything, this was one of the things that was plaguing her the most: that, due either to the mind-control spell, or to the pure trauma of that night, her own memory was failing her. A protective mechanism, she knew, but it gave her no comfort.

"Do you hope to regain some information that you think might help one of the other girls?" Dumbledore ventured.

"No," Hermione admitted, with a twinge of guilt. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. "But if you think there might be something--" she offered gamely.

"No, no," Dumbledore protested. "I did not mean to suggest it. I am merely attempting to help you, in whatever modest way that I can. I reproach myself daily for having allowed it to happen in the first place."

"Oh, I don't blame you, Sir," Hermione dutifully responded.

Dumbledore nodded in solemn acceptance. "Well then, what do you hope to gain by reliving such a terrible experience? You mentioned a second memory...?"

Hermione squirmed internally and her heartrate increased. She didn't want to share that information, that suspicion, with the Headmaster. Not yet. Not until she was sure. "Yes," she confirmed guardedly. "I thought I saw something that might help identify the... one of the Death Eaters."

"I see." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his beard as it lay across his brown-and-gold robes. He watched Hermione with a calculating eye. After a moment, he continued. "Miss Granger, I have great faith in your powers of reason. I have no reason to doubt but that you are correct in your surmise."

Hermione frowned, an odd feeling developing in her stomach. "But you don't know who I'm thinking of."

"No, I do not know for certain," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Without naming names, however, I think it safe to say that you suspect that someone within the walls of this very castle was present on the night in question."

Hermione's heart was beating very fast now. Did he know? Was it possible that he knew that Snape had been there? Then she remembered something she had told the Headmaster during her first interview with him, on the day after...

"I'm not thinking of Draco Malfoy, Sir," she said as firmly as she could, willing her voice not to tremble.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, "you had mentioned that possibility, had you not. But you said yourself you were certain that it was not he. No, I did not assume that you were referring to young Mr. Malfoy."

He watched her calmly. The only sound was a light metallic clicking coming from one or the other of the silver instruments on the periphery of the room.

And then, suddenly, the enormity of what the Headmaster was saying hit Hermione with a wave of impotent rage. He knew. He knew! He knew that--that _man_--had been there. And he hadn't done anything. That's what he meant when he kept saying it was all his fault. And he was still letting him teach! Still letting him stand up before everyone, students, _children_-- The blood was rushing in her ears, and her hands spasmodically clenched and unclenched on the arms of her chair.

"You..." she finally brought forth, her voice barely more than a whisper. She wanted to jump over the desk and tear at his beard and scratch at his face; she wanted to point her wand at him and Crucio him herself! At the same time, she was horrified that she was having such thoughts; he was a professor, the headmaster, the head of the Order sworn to defeating Voldemort, a great and venerable wizard, and no matter her feelings, she couldn't bring herself to physically attack such a man. "You knew..." She screwed her face up in troubled disbelief.

Dumbledore's countenance turned hard at this accusation, and he spoke with a vehemence that scared Hermione a little. "I did not know! Afterwards, yes, but not then, certainly not before. When I say that I feel responsible for what happened, I must make it perfectly clear that I am referring only to the failure of the protective measures on the school. The actions of individuals are beyond my control." Dumbledore stood up and walked around to the front of the desk, so that he was standing next to Hermione.

She was suffused with a fury that she had rarely felt before, and she refused to look up at him.

"You are an adult now, Miss Granger, and I believe it right to treat you as such. I made the mistake in the past of trying to shield those whom I believed to be too young to understand, or indeed come to terms with, the gravity of their situation. It was wrong of me to withhold information then, and it would be wrong for me to do so now."

Dumbledore summoned a chair, which slid into position next to Hermione's. He sat down in a billow of gold and peppermint and caught Hermione's eye, which was brimful with tears of anger. "You think me heartless." He sighed. "Perhaps I am, in the sense that I am willing to accept smaller measures of inhumanity in order to prevent much larger ones."

Hermione didn't trust herself to say anything, and at any rate, she wasn't able to think clearly at the moment. All she could feel was an overwhelming sense of betrayal and hurt. She had trusted Dumbledore above everyone else, had trusted him to always be right, to protect her, them, everyone, from Voldemort and the world. And now he had done this...had allowed That to happen.

The elder wizard's demeanor became sympathetic; clearly, for all his wisdom, he did not know what Hermione was really thinking at that moment, for if he had, he would not have continued in that tone of fatherly concern, "I know, Miss Granger, that what you went through must have been horrible. Horrible." He shook his head in emphasis. "Which serves to underscore the importance of the task with which we are faced: We must not allow them to gain the upper hand. We must not give in to fear and intimidation, for those are their most powerful tools, not the acts of violence themselves. Do you understand me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione was staring at the edge of the desk, her jaw fixed. Did she understand him? No. She had never been less capable of understanding than she was at the moment. But she nodded her head nevertheless, hoping only that the interview would soon be over, allowing her to escape to...anywhere else. Only there was no escape. Wherever she went, she would carry what had happened with her.

"Good, good." He nodded blithely. "Understanding is better than acting blindly, although, sometimes, we are called upon to act in blind faith. Sometimes, in fact," he continued, "we are called upon to do something, in blind faith or otherwise, which we would otherwise find so foul that we would rather die than do. Do you follow me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione raised her eyes to meet Dumbledore's steely blue gaze, and she nodded her head slowly under the force of it.

"I am glad of it. The truth is indeed a slippery thing." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "And now, I believe, you wished to have the use of my Pensieve...?"

Hermione started. The Pensieve? She shook her head curtly. "No, thank you, Sir," she said, sitting up stiffly. She felt repulsed by the presence of the man sitting next to her, crushed and sickened by what he had revealed. "I... I'm sorry for having bothered you," she said as neutrally as she could, and stood up, avoiding looking directly at him.

"Not at all," he replied pleasantly, standing as well and taking her hand. "And Miss Granger...I am truly sorry."

The words, coupled with his warm, dry hand over hers, penetrated her mantle of negative emotions, and startled her into glancing briefly at his face, but she looked away again quickly, unwilling to accept the truth of the anguish written there. Right then, she was more comfortable with her anger.

+000+000+

The night air was cold and still. Hermione felt as if she were moving across the grounds in suspended animation. She hadn't been able to stand the oppressive gaiety of the rest of the student body, preparing for the next day's Quidditch match. If anyone asked, she was on her way to Hagrid's, but she was already past his hut, on her way to the lake, an empty black space delineated by the dense shadows of the Forest. She stopped just beyond the reach of the inky liquid lying all but still in its basin. There was a smell of pine and snow in the air, although the ground was dry. She stood with her arms slung about her, staring out into the distance.

Hermione felt more alone than she ever had in her life, and that was saying a lot. She had no allies left, no one whom she could trust. Dumbledore was allowing the man who had attacked her to continue to teach...to be _her teacher_. She knew that he must have his reasons, but they were unfathomable to her at the moment. The truth...faith...the prevention of inhumanity. Abstractions that had nothing to do with that black figure standing before her, claw-like hands pulling at her pyjamas, loathsome flesh _touching_ her... She closed her eyes tight and dug her nails into her arms as hard as she could through her clothing, trying to increase the pain to a point where it would drive those memories away.

"What are you doing here?" a deep male voice demanded harshly as a light flared up behind her.

Hermione whipped around and drew her wand, her heart in her throat. A black figure was standing a few feet away from her. In the glow from its illuminated wand, Hermione saw the unmistakable long black hair and narrow-featured face of Professor Snape. He looked most displeased.

"Students are not allowed out after dark," he said with a deep scowl. "What were you thinking? Where's Potter?" He raised his wand and directed the light emanating from it into the shadows just beyond Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. "It's just me," she said, instinctively trying to protect Harry. She shivered with cold and fear, then realized that had been a stupid thing to say. She should have pretended that Harry was there with her; now she was without protection. The awful thought struck her that he might be here to kidnap her again.

"I have to get back," she said quickly and started toward the castle, attempting to give Snape a wide berth, but he held out his wand to block her.

"What are you doing out here, Miss Granger?" he demanded.

Hermione froze, staring at the wand tip in front of her. "Nothing, Sir." She didn't know what to do: try and talk her way out? Run? Stand and fight?

"You were out of the castle at this hour, alone, without any motive whatsoever? I find that difficult to believe," he sneered.

Something about this accusation caused her anger to override her fear and indecision. She looked into the hated face and spat, "Nevertheless, it's true! I was out here for absolutely no reason other than I wanted to be. So I've broken a rule! What are you going to do, take House points from me? Go on, then, I've had worse done to me!" _--by you_, she was tempted to add, but wasn't quite able to. She scowled back at him defiantly, breathing hard, her heart pounding.

Snape's face remained a mask, but he answered in a lethal tone, "Miss Granger, you of all people should know what can happen to a student caught alone and without protection. These are dangerous times. Five points from Gryffindor. Now get back inside before I reconsider."

Hermione stared at Snape, trying to see what was behind those black eyes. Five points? He should have taken away fifty. He was going easy on her on purpose. What were his true feelings, his true loyalties? How could he be the Death Eater who had ... raped her? How could he be so impassive? For a moment, then, it looked like he was on the verge of saying something else, but that instant's alteration in his expression was enough to send Hermione bolting for the castle.

+000+000+

So she knew it now. Complications. The old man had told him, urged him to talk to her. Ridiculous. He'd come out here to get away from it all. As she likely had done, as well. Ironic, that they had both chosen the same spot to escape to, and run into the one person they least wanted to see at that moment.

Dumbledore didn't think she'd expose him, but the risk was certainly there. Not that he feared for his miserable life; that was already forfeit. But the wrath of Voldemort would be great, indeed, if his pigeon-in-the-hole at Hogwarts had to fly the coop. No telling whom he might take it out on: the rest of the Death Eaters; Muggle-borns. Muggles. The Order would suffer less if he were lost; they had other spies (and spies in spe), although none enjoyed the degree of confidence or had the talents that Snape did. But there would be none left to fulfill the task that Dumbledore had set for him; the culmination which they both hoped would not come to pass, but which they nevertheless knew would.

Snape was looking forward to it, in fact, even though he knew it would seal his fate and destroy his own soul. Not that he particularly believed in an eternal soul, but from all he had read, it was a very Dark matter indeed to take another life with hatred in one's heart. And as he would not be able to summon enough love to do the task (as Dumbledore had always insisted he do), hatred it would have to be.

+000+000+

Hermione ran blindly across the grounds as if the Death Coach itself were after her. She tripped at one point over a root (probably an outrider of the Whomping Willow) and fell headlong across the rocky ground, crying out and skinning both knees, even through her jeans, and the underside of one arm. Aware at some level that no one was chasing her, she was nevertheless still filled with a mortal panic. She scrambled to her feet and was already propelling herself over the last stretch of land between her and the castle when she heard the unmistakeable brogue of Rubeus Hagrid.

"Who's there?" he bellowed, concern mingling with challenge. "Someone need help?"

Hermione turned instinctively toward the voice, which had always represented goodness and simple decency to her, and saw that she was but a few metres from the Gamekeeper's hut. The half-giant was standing in his open doorway, looking out into the darkness, his trusty boarhound Fang at his side.

"Oh, Hagrid!" Hermione gasped and staggered to him.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, reaching out to catch her. "Wha' in th'world? Wha' happened?"

Hermione buried her face against Hagrid's burly arm and shook her head, trying to catch her breath.

"Is ever'thing all righ'? Where's Harry?"

Of course, that would be his first thought, Hermione thought with a touch of bitterness: Harry's safety. Never mind that there was a Death Eater and rapist roaming the grounds of Hogwarts; as long as Harry was tucked in and safe, all was right with the world.

"Nothing, Hagrid," she assured him between gasps, "Harry's fine."

"Well wha' are you doin' out here, then?" he asked, holding her at arm's length so he could get a look at her. "Here, you're hurt! Come in, come in." He led her inside and set her onto one of the human-sized chairs he kept for visitors. Fang snuffled at the hand she let dangle down to the side and licked off the blood solicitously.

"Lemme jus' get summat to wash that off with, don' look like you'll be needin' Madam Pomfrey fer tha', it's jus' a scratch. Let off, Fang, there's a fella." Hagrid handed Hermione one of his monstrous handkerchiefs, sopping with water from a bucket by the fire, which she used to rinse off the dog drool, while trying not to bring the material into actual contact with the wound on her arm. She might just end up having to pop by the Hospital Wing later, if her hazarded guess as to the amount of bacteria that had just entered her body was anywhere near correct.

"Now, then," Hagrid said as he sat down opposite her, "what're you doin' out in the middle o' th' night? There's not any trouble, is there?"

"No, not really, I... I just wanted to get some fresh air." She attempted a wry smile and jerked her head toward the castle. "They're all spouting Quidditch up there."

"Ah." Hagrid nodded in understanding. "How'd you get all bunged up, then?" He indicated her scraped arm.

"Oh, silly, I tripped and fell in the dark. I should've lit my wand, but I was in such a hurry to get away--"

"Get away from what?" Hagrid asked, immediately alert. "Did you see summat out there?"

"No, nothing," Hermione corrected herself quickly. She didn't want to mention having seen Snape, for some reason. "I-- I meant I was in a hurry to get back."

Hagrid frowned at that. "I don' like you bein' out there alone, Hermione," he said. "'Specially near the Forest. Them centaurs, they're not to be trusted. An' there's other things..."

"I wasn't near the Forest," she reassured him, "just the lake. And there wasn't anything... I just got spooked by being out alone, I reckon. I'll be more careful, Hagrid, I promise."

"All righ' then," he said grumpily, then brightened as a new thought struck him. "Can I get you a cup o' tea? Or how 'bout a nice crumpet? Just baked a batch this afternoon, I did."

"Oh, no, Hagrid, that's very nice of you, but it is getting rather late. I should really be getting back. It wouldn't do for a Prefect to be out after curfew, would it?" She tried to speak in a light and casual manner as she stood up.

"Fang an' I'll see you to the castle, anyway," Hagrid said, and Hermione didn't argue.

+000+000+

_Why hadn't she told Hagrid about seeing Snape?_ Hermione wondered later as she lay in her bed. She wouldn't have had to reveal anything about the events of the previous week (had it already been a week?). She could have just said that she ran into Snape on the grounds and that he'd startled her. True enough. Hagrid would've understood that. Had she been trying to cover for him? For what? As a teacher, he had every right to be out on the grounds at any time; maybe he was even patrolling, it occurred to her now, although for some reason she had had the impression that he was out there on a personal errand, much as she had been. Had he also been trying to get away from the pressures and duties of his life in the castle? Had he also been trying to escape from his memories...

_But that was ridiculous,_ she admonished herself, actually snorting out loud into the darkness. He had wanted to do it, had enjoyed humiliating and hurting her... Hadn't he? Of course he had, she scoffed, just like he enjoyed humiliating and baiting Neville and Harry, just like he had enjoyed giving her the nightmare. He was a cruel bastard, a heartless, hateful Death Eater.

And she had it in her power to put a stop to him. She could go to the Aurors, lodge a formal complaint... _No!_ She pounded her fist against the mattress. She couldn't. She and the other girls had already agreed not to make it public. There was no way to accuse Snape without bringing an investigation down on Hogwarts, very likely ending in the school being shut down. And that was what Voldemort wanted in the first place. That and mass panic, perhaps even an exodus of Muggle-borns from the U.K.

Dumbledore expected her to keep this new-found knowledge to herself; wasn't that what he'd meant by accepting smaller measures of inhumanity in order to prevent larger ones? Easy for him to say... He wasn't the one who'd been... _His hand, _she thought. What had happened to cause that withering? Had something equally awful (was there anything as awful as rape?) happened to him?

Truth...Promises...Inhumanity...Courage...Sacrifice...Fear...Terror... Hermione's mind spun a web of ever-increasing complexity that brought her little respite that night.

_AN: In Irish folklore when the Bean Sidhe (banshee) wails and someone dies, a headless man comes down from the skies riding a coach (the Death Coach) with two black horses and picks up the spirit of the deceased. _


	9. Chapter 9: With Friends Like These

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 9**

**- With Friends Like These -**

_AN: Some dialogue in this chapter was copied verbatim from HBP, Chapter Fourteen: Felix Felicis._

Hermione rubbed her eyes, which were sticky from lack of sleep. Her dormmates were getting ready to go down to breakfast. Much as she did not want to join them, she also did not want to lie in bed any longer; her muscles ached from tossing and turning all night.

It was Saturday. Normally, she would have spent Saturday in the library, but she honestly didn't feel like doing any homework, and there were no answers to the real-life problems she was currently facing in the dusty tomes there. No, perhaps it would be for the best if she got up and went to the Quidditch match. The fresh air at least would do her some good. She would take a seat low down, away from the others. But first, she would need a very large mug of coffee with plenty of cream and sugar.

+000+000+

Hermione hadn't been to the Great Hall for breakfast all week, and she had made sure to show up during the last fifteen minutes of the other meals, so as to avoid having to interact with the others as much as possible. This, coupled with the general excitement due to that morning's Quidditch match, caused the room to seem even more crowded and loud than usual to her.

She couldn't help herself from glancing up at the front of the hall as she walked toward the Gryffindor table. Professor Snape was sitting there, his back as stiff as a board and a sour expression on his face. Professor Dumbledore was gazing cheerfully out at the students, and she fancied he might have given her an extra smile. Her stomach roiled at the sight of the two of them, and she hurriedly looked away.

She was on her way to the far end of the Gryffindor table, where the first years were sitting (they were too intimidated by her Prefect status to try and engage her in conversation), when she noticed Harry fiddling with Ron's cup, then palming a small vial. What in the world...? Her sense of moral outrage flared when she realized what he had been doing: the Quidditch match--Ron's poor goalkeeping ability--Felix Felicis. She stopped dead behind Ron.

"Don't drink that, Ron!"

Ron turned around with an ugly look on his face that startled her. "Why not?" he challenged her.

Hermione looked quickly away from Ron, not able to bear the malice in those eyes--those eyes which had such a short time ago caused her heart to flutter so pleasantly. Instead, she focused on Harry, who seemed to have a bit of a smirk on his face.

"You've just put something in that drink," she said with a hurt expression. She had thought that Harry at least had his priorities straight; didn't he realize how valuable that Felix Felicis was? He shouldn't be squandering it on a meaningless Quidditch match.

"Excuse me?" said Harry.

"You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said loftily, and she could have sworn he winked at Ron.

"Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" Hermione pleaded.

Ron sneered at her and turned his back, saying, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione." He picked up the goblet of pumpkin juice and knocked it back like a shot, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the rest of the table a triumphant look.

Hermione, her face red with shame, turned away. Those were supposed to be her best friends, and this was how they treated her. She blinked back tears, hardly able to see where she was going. All thoughts of breakfast forgotten, she left the Great Hall and ran back up the stairs. A couple of giggling Ravenclaws passed her on their way down. Ravenclaws...

Without really having a plan, she turned left at the second-floor landing rather than continuing up to Gryffindor Tower and walked rapidly along the corridor. The sun was streaming in through the mullioned windows, casting diamond-shaped patches of yellow on the flagstones. It looked like an optimal day for a Quidditch match.

At the end of the corridor, Hermione pushed open one of the three-meter-high double doors leading into the infirmary and immediately sought out the third bed on the right. A blond student was lying in it, asleep, but not the one she had expected. She stormed over to the Slytherin youth.

"What have you done with Lisa?" Hermione demanded.

Draco opened his eyes and jerked back, then, registering who had disturbed him, he relaxed slightly and closed his eyes again.

"Go away, Mudblood," he muttered through pale lips.

"I will not, not until you tell me where Lisa is!" Hermione clenched her hands at her sides.

Draco opened his eyes again and frowned in irritation. "Who?"

"Lisa Turpin, the girl whose bed you're lying in!"

Draco chuckled weakly. He really did look quite ill. "Granger, I'm not lying in any girl's bed. And if I were, it certainly wouldn't be..." He trailed off, getting a sly look on his face. "Turpin," he mused. "Are you talking about that snivelling blonde Hufflepuff?"

"She's in Ravenclaw!" Hermione corrected him fiercely.

"Whatever," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You can't expect me to keep you all straight."

"All who?" All the girls who had been there on Halloween?

"All of you Mudbloods, of course." A pained look crossed his face, and Hermione thought for a moment that he was going to be sick. But he swallowed hard and hissed, "And now get out. I'm sick, can't you see that? And the sight of you is only making me sicker!" He closed his eyes again, looking truly more than a little green around the gills.

Just then a woman's voice called from behind her: "Hermione!"

Hermione turned to see Madam Pomfrey bustling toward them. "I'm sorry, dear, but Mr. Malfoy is not in any shape to be receiving visitors."

"Good morning, Madam Pomfrey. I was actually looking for Lisa. Is she better?" Hermione asked hopefully.

But the nurse's face fell. "No, I'm sorry, she isn't. In fact, her parents have transferred her to a...Muggle hospital." She said this with slight disdain.

Hermione's heart dropped. "A Muggle hospital? But what about St. Mungo's? She was--" She was about to protest that Lisa was suffering from magic-induced injuries, and that therefore Muggles, however well-meaning, would be able to do very little to help her. But she had remembered just in time that no one was supposed to know the nature of Lisa's illness. She glanced at Draco to see if he was listening. His eyes were closed again, but she knew he was still awake.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Madam Pomfrey continued, her quick look in Draco's direction also making it clear that she was aware of the need for circumspection. "I should have let you know, but it honestly didn't cross my mind."

Dumbledore could also have told her, or Professor McGonagall, Hermione thought grimly, but they had both left her in the dark.

"That's all right," Hermione said to the matron automatically. "Do you know where she was moved to?"

"I have the name written down in my office. If you can wait a moment...?"

Once Madam Pomfrey had gone, Hermione turned to look at Draco again. She'd just realized that he was the Slytherin Seeker, and a big game was about to start; the fact that he was lying here in the Hospital Wing had to be due to only one thing: Felix Felicis. Righteous fury bubbled up in her. Stupid boys!

"What's wrong with you anyway?" she said to Draco suspiciously.

He groaned a little in answer, but didn't open his eyes.

"You do know that the Quidditch match is about to start?"

Draco turned onto his side, facing away from her. "Of course I know that, for Merlin's sake, you think I'm lying here for fun?" he answered testily.

"Something you ate?" she asked a bit nastily.

He gave a noncommittal moan.

Hermione frowned. There was of course the possibility that he was up to something, but that could be explained by the Felix Felicis as well, making him decide that it was much more important to take care of some shady business than to play Quidditch. In fact, if Harry and Ron's enthusiasm for the sport was anything to go by, there was very little short of magic that could convince a teenage boy not to play Quidditch.

"Here you are, Hermione." Madam Pomfrey returned with a slip of paper in her hand. "You'll find all the information on here. I'm sure I don't know what they think they can do for her. The Headmaster argued most forcefully for a transfer to St. Mungo's, but they are the parents."

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey. I'll try to send her an owl at least, let her know we haven't forgotten her." With a final glance at Draco's back, Hermione left.

It was only once she was halfway down the stairs again that it occurred to her that Draco had thought Lisa was "a snivelling blonde Hufflepuff": that description nailed Sandy Ploppe dead on. And why would Draco have jumped to the conclusion that Hermione was trying to find Sandy Ploppe? What connected her and Sandy? Why would he have assumed that Sandy might have been in the Hospital Wing? The only logical conclusion that Hermione could come to was...that he had been there on Halloween as well.

+000+000+

After that, the day had only gotten worse. It had turned out that Harry had not, in fact, used the Felix Felicis to aid Ron's Quidditch skills (or make Draco ill), which was in and of itself a good thing, but it meant that Harry had blatantly used Hermione to trick Ron. Then Ron, rather than being happy that he'd done such a good job all on his own, had accused Hermione of doubting his abilities and gone off and started making out with Hermione's own dorm mate in front of everyone. Lavender knew that Hermione had fancied Ron; at least, she and Parvati had always teased her about it before. So seeing Lavender and Ron together was a double slap in the face to Hermione. In summation, basically everyone who had had any sort of friendly relationship with Hermione had made her look stupid within the last twenty-four hours. Well, to be honest, that was a bit of an exaggeration. It had been less than twelve hours.

Now Hermione was on her way to the library, her last refuge. She felt certain that it would be deserted, it being a Saturday night with a Quidditch match to celebrate, and she was right.

Madam Pince was at the front desk, as usual, reading a book, and nodded curtly in acknowledgement of Hermione as she entered. Hermione's love of books was not enough, apparently, to put the student into Madam Pince's good graces. Probably one too many trips to the restricted section, which Hermione had been given free access to this year. She was headed there now, too. In addition to having the most interesting books, it was also the furthest back and most secluded part of the library, and had the most comfortable window nook in which to curl up and read. Or think. Or just...be.

Hermione breathed in the trusted scent of leather and parchment and felt herself relaxing within moments. Books would never betray her, never abuse her, never pretend to be something they weren't. She stood before a shelf full of tomes with titles like 'The Flying Nun', 'Confessions of a Warlock', and 'On the Road to Damascus...With a Detour to Hogsmeade'. Hermione mused for a moment on why these should be in the restricted section; it's not like they were particularly Dark. She was about to pull down 'Why I am Not a Wiccan' when the swishing of a cape and a shadowy movement to her left startled her.

Assuming it was Madam Pince wanting to check her note from Professor McGonagall for the umpteenth time, she started fumbling in her pockets for it, muttering darkly to herself. Honestly, one would think that the woman felt threatened by Hermione's presence, the way she policed her every time... There it was. She pulled the tightly-rolled slip of parchment out and held it out to-- Professor Snape.

"Miss Granger, what, may I ask, are you doing in the restricted section of the library?" His tone was slightly threatening. Or maybe it was his physical presence. It was hard to tell what it was, since nearly everything associated with Hogwarts' Defense professor scared Hermione at this point.

She was briefly unable to put two coherent thoughts together, but then thrust the roll of parchment at him, keeping her eyes directed somewhere in the region of his chest. "Here!"

Snape snatched the parchment away from her, and examined it briefly. She saw his long, thin fingers grasping the creamy material and had her memory of the hand holding the wand pointed at her confirmed once again. Snape exhaled through his nose and handed the parchment back to her. She hesitated, not wanting to touch something that he had touched. The permission slip was now contaminated. She would have to burn it. Never mind that she wouldn't be able to get into the restricted section any more. She forced herself to overcome her revulsion and took the scroll between her forefinger and thumb and hastily dropped it into her robe.

There was silence for a moment, during which Hermione continued to avoid looking at the professor. Was he going to stand there watching her forever?

"Is there something wrong?"

Hermione was startled by the question. Not that it had sounded particularly caring; it had been delivered in a rather disdainful tone of voice, reminiscent of how a manor lord would query a servant who had hesitated in carrying out a direct order.

Hermione shook her head. "No, Sir," she replied in a low voice.

"I take it you are here, once again, on no particular business," he stated.

Hermione took affront at this. "I have permission--" she started to defend herself.

"Yes, so I see," he cut her off shortly.

Again, there was silence.

"Miss Granger, I hope you understand the necessity for me, as a professor at this institution, to deduct House points."

Hermione was confused. Confused and indignant. So much so that she forgot her fear temporarily and looked up at him; just as far as his chin, though. "You can't take points away from me!" she protested. "You've just seen, I have permission to be here!"

Snape appeared impatient. "That is not what I mean, you silly girl," he sneered. "I thought you were supposed to be the clever one."

"Are you talking about the other night?" she ventured.

He nodded. "I am."

"You only took five points from me for being out of the castle alone," she said.

"I had not expected to find you there. By all rights, I should have taken fifty points."

Hermione raised her eyes a little further. He did not look at all amiable. He looked quite out of sorts, in fact. A little disgusted, even.

"Then, why--"

"Just because I am assigned certain duties due to my status, does not mean that I necessarily take pleasure in exercising them. Nevertheless, if I did not carry out my duties, I should be reprimanded. Possibly even punished."

Punished? Dumbledore would never punish a Head of House for not deducting House points when the situation warranted it. Would he? Hermione was just about to open her mouth to inquire further, but Snape turned abruptly and left, without another word.

Curiouser and curiouser, Hermione thought to herself with a frown. What in the world had that been about? Absently, she wandered over to her favourite nook and snuggled up against the upholstery. One could look out across the grounds from here. In the daytime, one could see the lake. She pressed her forehead against the cold pane and cupped her hands around her eyes to block out the light. The ground below was dark and unfathomable. Just like a certain DADA instructor.

_Not take pleasure in deducting House points, my arse,_ Hermione thought with a snort. He lived to deduct points from Gryffindor. Mostly from Harry, but he'd take Ron, Seamus, or Neville-- Anyone, really. Why had he only taken five points from her, then? It was a puzzler. Maybe he'd felt sorry for her or something-- But that was ridiculous! First of all, Snape never felt sorry for anyone. Secondly, he'd been the one who'd attacked her. He should have thought of that before, if indeed he were thinking along those lines now, which she seriously doubted. And what to make of that stuff about being reprimanded or punished for not deducting House points? Again, that didn't make sense.

She closed her eyes and rolled her forehead back and forth across the cool glass, then sat back and pressed her fingertips into the condensation left by her breath, making little dark spots on the window. And then she knew what he had been saying. And she felt the now-familiar fury invading her body.

He actually had the unimitaged gall to try to explain away what he had done by saying it had been his _duty_ as a Death Eater! Pleading that he would have been punished if he hadn't gone along.

How dare he! How dare he make excuses! He had _chosen_ to join the Death Eaters! He had _chosen_ to stay on as a spy! He had _chosen_ to be there and to do...to do what he had done! So what if he would have been punished for not doing it! What would he have gotten: a little pain? A little suffering? A little humiliation? What was that to her? Was she supposed to feel sorry for him or something? And what if he would have been killed for refusing? It would have been only just, for all the things he'd already done... Why, he'd probably already done that kind of thing before; dozens, no, hundreds of times!

Hermione threw herself headlong out of the seat and down the narrow aisle between the bookcases, ignoring Madam Pince's indignant cry, out of the library and up the stairs, running hard until she was gasping for breath, forcing her burning legs to mount one more step, then another, then another, until she burst out the door at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

The round observation platform was empty, and she lunged to the parapet, gripping the cold stone with hot fingers and leaning over to gulp in mouthfuls of snow-tinged air. It was so dark she couldn't see how far a fall it was to the ground. It might have been just a couple of metres; she knew it was more, but her brain tried to convince her it was a survivable distance. What would it feel like, to just float in the air, surrounded by darkness? It must feel better than this, she thought, this impotent rage, this aching in her soul. _I can always conjure an air mattress at the bottom, before I hit the ground, if I decide I don't like it,_ she considered. _Or Levitate myself. Although I've never tried it at speed, it might work._

She leaned farther over, letting her head hang down so that the wind whipped through her hair, pulling gently, teasing her. She got her wand out and held it in her right hand against the rough-hewn stone edge, then, as if in a trance, lifted it out over the abysm. It looked so small, nine-and-a-half inches of vine wood encasing a dragon heartstring core. What would happen if she... She opened her hand, and the stick began spiralling downward. She lost sight of it in less than a second. All of a sudden, it struck her what she was considering doing. She pushed herself back from the wall, horror-struck, stumbling on the hem of her robe. She sat down hard to prevent herself from falling and felt the hard, dirt-covered stones beneath her fingers. Oh, God. She had almost jumped. She had almost--

She swallowed convulsively over a dry throat and started shaking all over, then lay down on her back right there on the floor of the platform, her knees raised. After a moment, she became aware of winking lights above her. Moving lights. Airplanes. She laughed once, a choked sound that ended with a sob. There were still Muggles in the world. There were people who knew nothing of magic and Death Eaters. Tomorrow, she would go and visit them.

+000+000+


	10. Chapter 10: Therapeutic Methods

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 10**

**- Therapeutic Methods -**

"Are you a friend of hers from school?"

Hermione started at the voice. A middle-aged woman, a Muggle, with long, blond hair pulled back into a bun was standing next to her. She looked tired. Weary.

"Erm, yes, yes, I am," Hermione replied, getting up from the chair beside Lisa's bed. Lisa was sound asleep, and had been ever since Hermione had arrived half an hour earlier.

"That's all right, sit down," the woman said in a kindly manner. She reached over and pulled up a second chair. "I'm Sharon Turpin. Lisa's mother. I don't suppose she ever spoke of us, did she." It was more of a statement than a question.

Hermione shook her head. She had actually never really talked to Lisa before; didn't know her well at all. She suddenly felt guilty for having said she was one of Lisa's friends. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said, feeling awkward, and held out her hand.

Mrs. Turpin pressed it briefly, then turned to Lisa sadly. "Hermione. That's a lovely name." She reached out and smoothed the hair of the sleeping girl.

"Thank you," Hermione said, not knowing what was expected.

There was silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Turpin said, "So you're also...gifted? Like Lisa?" She didn't look at Hermione.

Hermione nodded. "Yes." She wasn't sure whether Mrs. Turpin was speaking in euphemisms for fear of being overheard (although Lisa was in a private room, so there wasn't much danger of that), or because she had never really understood what magic and being a witch was all about herself.

Mrs. Turpin's face turned a bit hard as she kept her gaze focused on her daughter. "Didn't help her much, did it. We thought it would be an opportunity for her. It was hard for us, to send her so far away. But the way the Deputy Headmistress explained it all..." She sighed and lay her hands limply in her lap. "And now this," she ended grimly.

"It... What happened to her, it wasn't because of her...gift," Hermione said, although again she felt a bit uncomfortable saying it, because if Lisa had been an ordinary Muggle, she would never have been there on Hallowe'en. Not on this Hallowe'en, anyway.

Mrs. Turpin suddenly turned to Hermione and looked at her as if she'd only just realized she were there. "Do you know?" she asked sharply. "Do you know what happened to her?"

Hermione wasn't sure what to answer at first. If Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore hadn't informed Lisa's parents of just what had taken place...

Hermione looked Mrs. Turpin in the eye and said gently, "I was there, too. They... What happened to Lisa, they did it to me, too." Only not as bad. Not nearly as bad.

Mrs. Turpin searched Hermione's face, hard, and if Hermione hadn't known better, she would have thought that she was trying to exercise Legilimency on her. Finally, Mrs. Turpin asked, both urgently and fearfully, "What... What did they do?" Then her features seemed to crack apart as they tried to form an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask. The Headmaster told us... I didn't want to believe it." She turned away to look at her daughter's peaceful, sleeping form again. "It's just that... We haven't been able to talk to her. I don't know if we'll ever know what really happened."

And maybe it's best that way, Hermione thought. "It's all right," she said. "I can tell you as much as I know, what I saw, if you want, but it was very brutal."

Mrs. Turpin became very pale. "Was she-- Was she in much pain?"

"Yes," Hemione was forced to admit. Funny how pain seemed to be the thing everyone was worried about. There were spells much worse than the Cruciatus Curse, in Hermione's modest opinion, yet they weren't classified as Unforgivable.

"Oh..." Mrs. Turpin's lip trembled. "And did she know... Was she aware of what was happening?"

"I believe so, at least up to a point," Hermione said neutrally. "It's possible they used the Imperius Curse. That clouds one's awareness."

"I see..." Mrs. Turpin said, although it was clear that she didn't.

After a moment's silence, when it seemed that Lisa's mother wasn't going to pose any more questions, she asked, "Mrs. Turpin, is Lisa... It's just that she's always sleeping when I visit..." She trailed off, trying to find a delicate way of asking whether Lisa had suffered permanent brain damage.

"The doctors are keeping her under sedation," Mrs. Turpin murmured, running her hand over the blanket. "She was having seizures, and they want to give her brain some time to relax. That's how they explained it to us, anyway," she said with half a shrug. "I know it's probably more complicated than that, but... It makes more sense to me than that alternative medicine they were trying at the school." She glanced briefly at Hermione, and then back at Lisa.

Knowing she was overstepping her boundaries, Hermione nevertheless couldn't keep her opinion to herself. "But Mrs. Turpin, what happened to Lisa... I mean, that was..." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "--magical. You can't fix magical damage with Muggle-- I mean, with standard medicine."

Mrs. Turpin turned to Hermione with a severe look. "That so-called _magic_ damaged my baby, may have taken her from us forever. You had your chance and now we are going to do things our way. You-- You just don't understand, you and your talk of witches and curses. That's straight out of the Middle Ages, isn't it."

"Mrs. Turpin, I do understand. My parents are also Muggles... Non-magical. They're just regular dentists. Please, don't take Lisa away from the magical world. She belongs there. That's exactly what the man who did this to her wants: He wants all of those who he thinks are impure to leave, to be killed even. It's going to take all of us, staying and fighting and not giving in and being strong, to overcome him and his kind. Please," Hermione entreated Mrs. Turpin.

Sharon Turpin's brow furrowed and she looked troubled as she contemplated the young woman before her. "All this madness..." she said, her voice trailing away into the clinical silence.

+000+000+

_--Shit.--_

Severus Snape had a throbbing headache. He groaned and buried his head underneath his pillow. He'd gotten pissed the night before; Scorching Scotch highballs, otherwise known as Fireballs, if he remembered correctly.

He fumbled on his bedside table for his wand, knocking over a glass with the remains of what must have been the last drink he'd had before he'd passed out. The carpet started smoking where the yellow liquid spilled onto it.

"_Accio_ Pepperup Potion," he croaked, and a brown bottle came flying out of the bathroom and landed on the bed. He picked it up and peered at it with bleary eyes. Empty.

_--Shit.--_

He lay on his back for a bit, not wanting to think. He knew perfectly well why he'd drunk himself into oblivion the night before; and if he knew that, then the entire action had been in vain.

_The Granger girl. _

The old man had told him that if he talked to her, it would help ease his own conscience. Bloody liar. He felt worse now than ever. He'd felt like a complete and utter fool trying to explain his actions to her. The look of incomprehension on her face had incensed him even further. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was denseness.

How the hell it was supposed to help for him to discuss that night, much less do the unthinkable and apologize for it... Too much thinking. Was it too early for another Fireball?

Wanting nothing more than to succumb once again to the oblivion of sleep, but being plagued by the urgent demand that had woken him in the first place, he got up and staggered to the bathroom, where he relieved himself and gulped down two glasses of water to slake his parched gullet. Immediately, he regretted having done so, as his empty stomach lurched at the sudden inflow of cold liquid.

Why did every damn action he took have to have consequences? Unpleasant consequences. Seriously unpleasant consequences. Consequences that screwed up his life. (_And other people's lives, too,_ a niggling little voice insisted on pointing out to him.) Severus squirmed mentally away from that voice. It was that one that had driven him to the Fireballs last night.

_Why'd you have to do it?_ the voice had said in its annoying, whiny way. _Why didn't you let someone else do it?_

Because that raving maniac would have killed me then and there, you fool! He was just aching for an excuse to.

_All the better,_ the voice had replied. _It's not like your life is worth anything anyway._

He hadn't had much to say to that, and this had led him to mix up the first Fireball. Once he'd downed it, he had come up with a rather good retort, though:

Dumbledore. He needs me to take care of him when the time comes.

He'd been pretty pleased with that, as the little voice had remained quiet for quite some time, allowing him to enjoy the slightly woozy feeling the Fireball had given him. But then the little voice had reported back with another hornet's nest:

_The Granger girl._

That had prompted the second Fireball. He had waited a short while for a response to come, and when it hadn't, he had resorted to a third Fireball. After that, he'd lost count, and the result was now making itself painfully known.

Why did he care about what happened to her, anyway? He'd done what he had to do, both for the Dark Lord's means and in order to maintain his position for Dumbledore's plans. Just a little while longer, and it would all be over, anyway. Far from being playing both sides to hedge his bets, as some no doubt thought, he was simply a pawn to the two old codgers. Expendable. Dispensible. Why should the Granger girl, or any of the rest, count more than he?

+000+000+

"Sir?" Pansy Parkinson waved her stubby hand in the air. "Sir? We were wondering, why are love potions considered to be Dark? I mean, love is good, isn't it?"

Professor Snape narrowed his eyes at the pug-nosed Slytherin. "Is Slughorn having you brew love potions, Miss Parkinson?"

"He brought in an entire vat of Amortentia," Malfoy informed the former Potions master with a lazy grin that said he hoped Slughorn was going to get in a lot of trouble.

"Did he, now," Snape responded drily. "Not something I would find advisable, not with a bunch of randy sixth-years."

There was a great deal of sniggering at that. Even Harry and Ron exchanged pleasurably guilty looks.

Hermione did not. She felt positively sick at hearing Snape's remark. How could he be so glib, so thoughtless, joking about sex drives. Knowing what he was guilty of. Of course, it had probably just been a big joke to him. He probably did it every week. Or every night, for all she knew. She hated him. She absolutely loathed Professor Snape. Snape. What a stupid name. And what an ugly, filthy man he was. Just thinking about it caused her to involuntarily make a sound like a cat with a hairball caught in its throat.

Half the class turned to Hermione in surprise. Only Harry asked, half laughing, "Hermione? Are you all right?"

Hermione glared straight ahead. "Fine," she muttered into the back of her hand, swallowing down her bile.

Snape must have thought that she had snorted in amusement at his comment, since he didn't make any further remark; although she did notice that he flicked a glance in her direction. She looked down at her notes, curling her lip.

"Love potions, Miss Parkinson," Snape began, once the class was silent again, "are considered to be Dark magic because they interfere with the imbiber's free will. A man under the influence of a love potion is no longer in control of his actions. Administering a love potion to an unsuspecting victim is tantamount to casting the Imperius Curse." He paused for a moment to allow the import of his words to sink in.

Pansy sank a little lower in her seat and exchanged a look with Millicent Bulstrode, while Blaise produced a cough that sounded remarkably like "Busted!"

"However," Snape continued, "a love potion affects a much smaller range of behaviour than the Imperius, and, of course, it is relatively simple to brew an antidote. Not that I expect any of you will have found it an easy task," he muttered in an aside.

"Is the antidote to the Imperius Curse hard to brew, then?" Millicent asked stupidly.

Draco rolled his eyes, and it was clear that Snape stopped himself from doing so only with difficulty. "There is no antidote to the Imperius Curse, Miss Bulstrode," he said with exaggerated care. "It is a Curse, not a potion, and I believe you will have covered it in your fourth year. One of the more useful exercises Mr. Crouch put you through, if I am not mistaken."

"Bet he wishes he could put us under the Imperius now," Ron muttered under his breath to Harry. Harry snorted sympathetically.

Hermione got the chills, remembering how Snape had pointed his wand at her neck and intoned, "_Imperio_."

"Mr. Weasley?" Snape said sharply. "Potter? Something you find amusing about the Imperius?"

"No, sir," Harry said flatly, staring at Snape with cold eyes.

"It is no laughing matter, I assure you. Although I believe I was informed that you were able to throw it off, were you not...?" He narrowed his eyes calculatingly at Harry.

"Yes, sir," Harry replied loudly. "It wasn't that hard." His answer was more defiant than bragging.

Hermione thought secretly that Harry needn't have added that last part, although she didn't begrudge it him one bit. If she had Harry's guts, she'd be giving it to Snape also.

"Yet another addition to the Potter legend," Snape sneered derisively. "Able to throw off the Imperius at age fourteen. I'd like to see how you handle it being cast by someone who isn't a stark raving lunatic, though."

This dig proved too much for Hermione, and she burst out, "You know you want to cast it on him, why don't you go on, then. You're so good at it!"

Utter silence descended. Even Harry stared at Hermione, flabbergasted.

"What did you say, Miss Granger?" Snape asked in a very dangerous tone of voice.

Hermione jutted her chin at the professor. "I said if you think you're so good at casting the Imperius Curse, why don't you just show us."

Snape stalked over to Hermione's desk and leaned over, placing his hands on the surface directly in front of her. "The Imperius Curse is a Class Three Unforgivable," he whispered, capturing Hermione's gaze with his, "carrying a mandatory term of no less than one year in Azkaban prison. If I did not have a contract to complete the year as an instructor here, believe me, I would be sorely tempted to do just as you suggest."

Draco grinned and leaned back with his fingers interlocked behind his head. Ron looked at Hermione with a mixture of awe and fear.

Hermione met Snape's eye. "I know," she said in an equally low tone filled with venom and contempt. She felt a sharp kick in her shin.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor," Snape said, without batting an eye. "And you will report to the Headmaster's office immediately." He abruptly turned and strode to his desk, where he scribbled something onto a scrap of parchment.

"Oooooh!" the Slytherins chorused and cackled in glee.

"Are you freaking out of your mind?" Ron screeched in a whisper.

"Way to go, Hermione!" Harry said with a grin.

Hermione, the blood rushing in her ears, hastily stuffed all of her things into her bag and started for the door. Anything to get out of that man's presence.

"Miss Granger!" Snape barked before she could make her exit. "Give this to the Headmaster." He held out the parchment which he had written on.

Hermione snatched it out of his hand and slammed the door, hearing Slytherin laughter behind her all the way down the hall.

+000+000+

Hermione stomped through the halls of Hogwarts, finding herself before the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office before she was even aware of having navigated the way there. She gave the password and ascended the spiral escalator, preparing all manner of choice words to throw at the Headmaster. When she knocked on the door at the top, however, there was no answer, and when she hesitantly pushed it open, she found the office deserted. Even the various Headmasters' portraits were half empty, and the half that were occupied were asleep.

Both relieved and irritated, she flumped down onto the nearest chair and tried to compose her diatribe. How could Dumbledore continue to protect Snape? It was simply incomprehensible. She had thought long and hard about what the elderly wizard had told her during her last visit to his office, and although she understood logically what had been communicated, she still felt deep down that it was wrong; that he was wrong.

Dumbledore had said, in his cryptic and roundabout way, that he was overlooking, or ignoring, or however one wanted to put it, Snape's crimes, in order to stop a much greater criminal. Much like a small-time drug dealer would be granted immunity from prosecution in return for ratting on the major supplier. Which meant that Snape had something on Voldemort, or was in a position to do him serious damage. That much she had grasped. But didn't the fact that Dumbledore was willing to work with a man such as Snape, a man who would willingly participate in such vile and loathsome acts as he had, didn't that make Dumbledore complicit?

The Headmaster had said something else: that one sometimes had to do foul things without understanding why. Hermione assumed that he had been referring to her: that he expected her to keep quiet about the attack, because it was important that Snape not be uncovered. Or because the school needed to remain open yet. Or for some other reason that he wasn't at liberty to discuss. But she needed to know! If there was a reason behind it, a reason other than Voldemort's dementia or a Death Eater's sick fantasy, she needed to know! She could almost, almost, force herself to deal with what had happened to her if she knew that there was a larger purpose, that in the end it would lead to Voldemort's downfall. But without that information...it was just cruel and inhuman, pure and simple.

She was starting to get antsy, wondering when the Headmaster was going to show. If she didn't get going now, she'd be late for Potions. On the other hand, she didn't really relish the thought of watching Harry pull some last-minute triumph out of the Half-Blood Prince's bag of tricks.

Just then, she heard a sound at the door. Finally! She turned around, expecting to see a long, white beard and colourful robes, but instead a tall, black figure appeared.

"Where is he?" Snape closed the door to the Headmaster's office behind him.

Hermione tried to calm her suddenly wild heart as she realized that they were alone in a closed room. "Who?" she asked, only half hearing what he was saying.

"The Headmaster, obviously," he said impatiently. "I would have thought he'd have dealt with you by now." He swept past her, looking around the office, then rounded on her. "Well?" He glared down at her.

She gave herself a mental shake. "I have absolutely no idea," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Did he step out? Leave you here alone? When will he be back?" he asked with increasing irritation.

"I told you, I don't know," she answered. "He wasn't here when I got here."

"And you've just been sitting here this whole time?" He sounded both skeptical and taunting.

"Those were your instructions," Hermione countered, coming very close to being mocking as she repeated his words: "Go to the Headmaster's office."

This only infuriated the Defense teacher further. "I have had just about enough of your mouth. Who do you think you are? You are speaking to a professor, and you will not be disrespectful."

"A professor? Don't you mean a Death Eater who is hiding out here posing as a professor?"

There was a slight rustling, and some of the portraits began to stir.

Snape was before her in an instant, grabbing her arm and leaning over to speak directly in her face.

"Keep your mouth shut!" he hissed. "The walls have ears!"

Hermione glanced up at the portraits, and indeed, despite the closed eyes, many of them seemed to be positively alert.

Snape's reaction, far from intimidating her further, actually gave her a feeling of power. She had something on him. Something he didn't want anyone to find out. "What, are you scared that someone will find out what you are?" she taunted, twisting her arm to get it out of his grip.

"It is not for myself that I fear," he whispered intently, but there was no fear in his eyes, only a depth that both repulsed and mesmerised her.

"Who, then?" she challenged him. "Surely not Professor Dumbledore. He's miles more powerful than either you or Voldemort!" She tossed her hair back in a gesture of defiance.

Snape pulled Hermione up by the arm and held her uncomfortably close to his body. "I told you to keep quiet!"

Hermione felt a physical revulsion at being in such proximity to him, seeing his stained teeth and stringy hair hanging flat from his scalp, and she tried to pull her arm away from him, but he wouldn't let go.

"Voldemort! Voldemort!" she threw at him, just to be spiteful. "I'm not afraid of him, you know. I've seen him, and he's nothing but a pitiful old man, more than half dead already. But of course you know that. You were there, too!"

Snape thrust her away from him then, using such force that she stumbled back against the desk. "You little fool! Do you not realize the damage you are doing?"

"Me!" she cried. "What damage I'm doing! What about you! What did you and your friends do to me and my friends!"

"Get over it, Miss Granger!" he retorted scathingly. "You're here, you're alive, you have all of your faculties intact! You can consider yourself lucky."

"Lucky? I'm lucky that I was kidnapped and tortured?"

"You are lucky that--" Snape stopped himself abruptly and turned away, paced a few steps, then turned back amidst a whirl of robes. His face was devoid of emotion. "You are lucky," he said flatly. "Leave it at that."

"I won't leave it at that, because it's a lie," she shot back.

"You will have to leave it at that, because we will not discuss it again. Ever. You may go."

She glared at him for a moment, then, scowling, she heaved the door open and ran out.

+000+000+

"There you are!" Harry greeted Hermione when he entered the common room. "What happened to you? You just disappeared right after Potions; I didn't even get a chance to ask what Dumbledore said."

Hermione didn't look up from her book. "He didn't say anything."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione shifted in her chair. "He wasn't there."

"Wasn't there?" Harry threw himself down across the sofa opposite Hermione's chair, sending out a small puff of leather- and wool-scented air. He'd been at Quidditch practice.

"No, I just waited in his office all period, and then I came down to Potions."

Harry laughed. "So Snape sent you up there, hoping you'd get expelled or something, and you just ended up getting out of his class? That's great!"

Hermione snorted.

"Fifty points was pretty harsh, though, even for Snape."

"Mm-hm," Hermione agreed, not looking at Harry. She had understood the fifty points. They were the fifty points he hadn't taken from her for being out alone on the grounds the other night.

A squeal from the other side of the common room caused both their heads to turn. "Won-Won!" Lavender was throwing herself at Ron, who had just come through the portrait hole, his ears and cheeks red from cold.

Hermione snapped her book shut. "I'm going to bed," she said, throwing a dark look in their direction. "Good night, Harry."

+000+000+

"Either she goes, or I do!"

"Who?" Dumbledore blinked innocently at Snape. He removed his travelling cloak and tossed it in the direction of the coatrack near the night-blackened window; it found its place on the hook automatically.

"You know perfectly well who I am referring to," Snape said peevishly. "The Granger girl."

"Ah, yes. Tea?" The Headmaster gestured to the pot on a quaint little side table which was even at the moment filling with steaming water.

Snape snorted and began pacing the room.

Dumbledore settled himself down in the yellow chiffon armchair near the fire. The table with the teapot toddled over. "Have you spoken to her as I recommended?" he inquired politely.

"I have spoken to her," Snape ground out, "but it was a senseless waste of time. She refuses to listen to reason."

Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow at him. "You are not supposed to reason with her."

"What then?"

"Ask for her forgiveness." Dumbledore watched the teapot pour a dose of its contents into the china teacup he held balanced on a saucer.

Snape stopped pacing and exlaimed, "Out of the question! I don't need her to forgive me! Let her think me a monster. It will only be of use for your plans."

The Headmaster's brow furrowed slightly. "I disagree with you, but let us leave that aside for the moment. It is important, for her health and well-being, that she hear those words from you."

Snape resumed his prowling about. "She should be grateful she didn't end up like the other girl," he muttered, "instead of stirring up trouble."

"Trouble?" Dumbledore inquired, taking a sip of his tea.

"She is a danger!" Snape exploded. "She all but announced to the entire class that-- what happened!"

"That you violated her?" Dumbledore questioned, his blue eyes now latched onto Severus like a pitbull's teeth in a rabbit's neck.

Snape clenched his hands spasmodically at his sides. "That is not how it was, and you know it," he managed to spit out through clenched teeth.

"That is precisely how it was," Dumbledore corrected him.

"I tried to protect her as far as I could!" Snape said defensively. "If I hadn't done it, I would have been killed!"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head and gazed into the fire. "Perhaps that would have been better, in the long run," he added, as an afterthought.

All colour drained from Snape's face. "Perhaps it would have been," he said without emotion. "I was under the impression that you needed me for your last act. I am sorry if I was mistaken."

Dumbledore focussed on Snape again and seemed to jerk back into himself. "Oh, Severus, that's not what I meant, not what I meant at all," he said irritably. "As I told you before, Tom was very clever to involve you in his plans as he did. He is killing you, even so!" His eyes flashed with displeasure.

"In other words, my existence is no longer of any import."

"Severus!" Dumbledore reprimanded him sharply. "You are very important! And not just for the role you may, and I hope it never comes to that, but, yes, that you may have to play. If all goes well, however, you can redeem yourself in the eyes of the world. And," he added more softly, "I hope in your own as well."

"Enough," Severus hissed. "What are we going to do about the girl?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Remove her from my class," Snape demanded shortly.

"If you are worried about rumours, that is a sure way of fanning the fires."

"Then you must talk to her, impress upon her the importance of her keeping up appearances. This simply cannot continue. She has to get over it, forget about it."

"Severus. Have you ever gotten over all the hurt that has been dealt you in your life? Have you ever forgotten a single slight, a single insult?"

Snape turned his back on his employer and stared at his own dark reflection in the window. "I've dealt with it. She will have to deal with this, and worse, before it is all over."

"I certainly hope not," Dumbledore said sincerely, and watched Snape over the rim of his teacup.

+000+000+

"Good morning," a pretty young woman with short brown hair and glasses said, pulling up another chair beside Lisa's bed. "I'm Theresa Goodwin. Mrs. Turpin told me you were a friend of Lisa's?"

Hermione smiled and shook her hand. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger."

Lisa was lying, serene as ever, asleep in her hospital bed.

"It's nice to meet you, Hermione," the Goodwin woman said. "I'm Lisa's therapist, but unfortunately, I haven't been able to talk to her much yet." She smiled regretfully.

"Mrs. Turpin told me the doctors are keeping her sedated to help her brain recover."

"She's had wakeful periods in the later afternoons," the therapist offered. "Perhaps if you're able to come see her then...?"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, "I can't today. Maybe next week? It's just that I attend a boarding school, and I can only get permission to visit on Sunday mornings."

"I understand. You're at the same school as Lisa, then?"

"Mm-hm." Hermione nodded, hoping that she didn't ask any more detailed questions.

"It's very kind of you to come and see her, knowing that she's under sedation."

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. "I-- I would have felt bad, knowing she's lying here all alone." To tell the truth, that wasn't the entire reason for her visits; she also found a sense of stillness and peace watching the sleeping girl, sharing vicariously in her escape from consciousness.

"You must be very close to her, then."

Hermione felt a prickly discomfort. "I didn't know her very well at all," she admitted.

"Oh." It was a neutral sound, more an acknowledgement of her having heard the statement than anything else. Nevertheless, Hermione felt the pressure of the unasked question weighing on her.

"I was-- I was there. When Lisa...was attacked." She wasn't sure how much the therapist knew of the circumstances; how much the doctors knew, but she felt she should stick as close to the truth as she could, as she had when she had talked to Mrs. Turpin the previous week.

"You were," the therapist echoed, again, neutrally.

Then, realizing that what she had said could be interpreted in two ways, Hermione hastened to add, "I mean, I was also--" She stopped and looked away. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," she said, her throat suddenly dry.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Goodwin assured her. After a moment, she probed gently, "Did someone tell you not to say anything?"

Hermione shook her head and looked at her hands. She'd already said too much. It was supposed to be kept secret... If word got out, there would be panic, they'd close Hogwarts-- But this was a Muggle. She wasn't in a position to have any influence in the wizarding world.

"Hermione," the woman asked softly, "have you talked to anyone about what happened? The police? A friend?"

Hermone shook her head again, fighting back the tears that were threatening to burst forth.

"If you want, you can talk to me. I won't tell anyone, I promise. Unless you want me to."

Hermione wanted desperately to let it all come out. Up until now, it had been fine with her to hide what had happened. She hadn't been ready to tell anyone, anyway. Putting on a facade of normalcy had been her coping mechanism. By not acknowledging the attack to anyone, she had avoided acknowledging it to herself as well.

"I... " Hermione took a deep breath and whispered, gazing tremulously into Theresa Goodwin's kind face, "I was raped."

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_AN: I don't know if I came up with the Fireballs myself or not...I think I did, but it could be I read that in someone else's fan fic. If so, thanks whoever you are and cheers!_


	11. Chapter 11: Stockholm Syndrome

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**CHAPTER 11 **

**-- Stockholm Syndrome --**

Hermione's visits to Teresa Goodwin and Lisa Turpin became a regular feature of her Sunday afternoons. A member of the Order would pick her up from Hogwarts and Apparate with her to the Muggle hospital where Lisa was being treated, then bring her back two hours later. Being aware of the ways of the world, it did occur to Hermione to ask who was paying for the sessions, but then she figured that Dumbledore must have worked something out, and well he should, since he was at fault (as he had told her) in the first place.

After talking with the therapist for 45 minutes, Hermione would go down to Lisa's room and chat with her for an hour or so; when the weather was conducive, they would go out to the enclosed courtyard and sit on one of the stone benches there. The Ravenclaw girl was once again able to interact and communicate, but she tired quickly, and often Hermione would find herself holding a monologue on the week's events at the castle.

She tried to keep Lisa up-to-date on classwork, but she didn't feel comfortable performing magic in the Muggle setting, even when they were alone, and it was difficult to explain how to perform a charm or transfiguration without actually demonstrating. Mostly they just talked about superficial things: the weather, food, fashions. Or just sat together in silence. They never mentioned Hallowe'en.

As Hermione worked to integrate the horrifying experience (and she did work at it, as if it were a N.E.W.T. subject), she found herself growing closer to Harry. Not physically; in fact, she found that they were spending more time apart than they had during any other year since they'd met. But she was developing a deeper understanding for how Harry must have felt all those years of being terrorized by Voldemort, with no family to whom he could run for comfort, no witnesses to what had happened with Quirrell, or in the Chamber of Secrets, or at the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

Oh, yes, she and Ron had said they believed him. They had believed him, did believe him. But it was like a religious belief: one believed it because one was expected to, or because one wanted to, not because it was a fact that one knew to be true based on verifiable sensory experience and memory. And so there was always a seed of doubt: had it really been like that? Had he maybe just imagined some of it? For, surely, if he had really come face-to-face with Voldemort, surely, he would not have come out of it alive time after time...

Now she knew that feeling. Yes, if she told Harry what had happened on Hallowe'en, he would believe her (as would Ron), but he wouldn't _know_ what had happened. He'd second-guess the experience, as she had his. He would probably think, if he had been there, in her place, he would have done such-and-such and then things would have turned out quite differently. Only she would ever know what had happened. Not even Oonagh, Sandy, or Lisa could understand. The other girls had been through their own personal hells; the one she had been through was just for her. For her and Snape.

Parallel to her more profound connection to Harry, Hermione found to her despair that her relationship with Ron was slipping out of her grasp like mist over the lake on those late Autumn mornings. Every time she reached out timidly toward him, he skittered away, into the warm, unsullied bosom of Lavender Brown. And so she stopped trying, painful as it was. She had to let him go; she had to let go whatever promise there had been of a great love between them. She would only disappoint him. She had disappointed him. He was a great, eager puppy of a young man, and what was she? Something old and black and shriveled. She used to see herself as pink and vibrant, but now she felt as if she were encased in a rotten shell, and what was inside was dried up, dessicated.

The other girls, Oonagh and Sandy, the only other ones with whom she might have spoken openly about that night, seemed to have found their own coping mechanisms, and they didn't involve discussions with Hermione.

Oonagh had slipped on a tough exterior and assumed the role of the brave survivor. Maybe it was just a front; maybe that's how she really saw herself. Hermione still heard remarks at the Gryffindor table or in the common room about Oonagh's version of the attack, dirty looks shot Grubb's way, reminders among friends to keep one's wand at the ready when going out alone.

Sandy had become ensconced in a well-padded layer of friends who, it seemed, were doing everything for her except sleeping. They had formed a protective bubble around her that carried her from her dorm to the dining hall to classes to the castle grounds to Hogsmeade; so that while she was physically present and engaged to some degree in student life, she was kept shielded from any actual confrontations, stress, or unpleasantness.

But for Hermione, there were no friends to shield her; no pretenses at heroism. She was alone.

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"Harry? Harry!" Hermione hissed at him across the library table, frowning a little at his inattention.

"Hmm?" Harry mumbled, not looking up from the book he was holding in his lap.

"I said, are you done with that Ley line atlas yet?"

Harry frowned, still not giving her his full attention. "Lee what?"

"The atlas! That book with the pretty pictures lying right in front of you!" She pointed, slightly exasperated, at the table before him, where a book was open to a page showing a colorful map.

Harry let his gaze wander unfocused over the book. "Oh, that. Yeah, you can have it. Here." He shoved it across the table toward her. "Nothing useful in there, anyway."

"And I suppose 'Famous Quidditch Players and Their Brooms' is much more useful," Hermione snarked.

"It's 'From Blagging to Wronski: A Captain's Guide to Strategy'," Harry retorted, holding up the book for her to see, "and yes, it's a sight more useful, at least for those of us with a life beyond schoolwork. I don't see the point of looking up some old fields that have long since been turned into Muggle car parks anyhow."

"You never know when knowledge will be useful," Hermione said, although she silently agreed with Harry that their assignment of mapping ancient centres of Dark magic was more busywork than anything else.

"I know this will never be useful," Harry said, flicking his fingers disdainfully at the books spread out on the table. "Snape only gave us the assignment so we'd have to spend more time looking at books, and he doesn't have to do anything. Have you noticed that we spend ninety percent of our class time just reading?" He put on a scowl and intoned, "Open your books to page six hundred and ninety three. There will be no discussion."

Hermione tutted even as she inwardly squirmed at his imitation of Snape. She had noticed that, after the nightmare class, he'd moved away from full-frontal teaching mode to more of a book-based class structure, as he had back when he'd subbed for Lupin in their third year. Which was fine with her. That was one of the reasons why she had even been able to return to class with him. She'd also mentally separated Snape-the-Professor from Snape-the-Death-Eater, even if she knew they were one and the same. It was her coping technique at the moment.

"Without a grasp of the fundamentals," she reminded Harry in her old know-it-all manner, "you can't expect to succeed at all. How would you ever have known about the _Mens Protego_ spell if you hadn't read about it somewhere?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe a teacher might actually have shown us? Explained what it was for? Rather than blasting into our minds completely without warning! I'm a little surprised that you of all people are defending that particular teaching method." Harry narrowed his eyes at Hermione.

Hermione bristled at that. "I'm not defending it! But what do you think the next Death Eater you run into is going to do? 'Oh, excuse me,'" she simpered, "'I'm going to try to blast you into next week in a moment; in case you're wondering, a well-placed Protection Charm right about now wouldn't be amiss.' That's not how it works, Harry! They sneak up on you, hit you from behind, get you when you're down, play off your worst fears!"

"Hey, hey, calm down!" Harry said. "I was there too, remember!"

"No you weren't, you--" Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at Harry in horror. She had very nearly told him about Hallowe'en.

Harry gave her a funny look. "Department of Mysteries... Did you forget? What's going on with you, Hermione? You've been acting kind of weird this whole term."

Hermione shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything. Her stomach was squeezing that evening's dinner together in a most uncomfortable way.

"Are you sure you aren't using a Time Turner?" Harry stood halfway up and reached across the table, pulling Hermione's jumper aside at her neck.

Hermione jumped up, knocking her chair backwards. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" she screeched.

Heads turned toward them and several annoyed 'shhhs' sounded.

"You're hiding something from me, Hermione Granger," Harry accused her, moderating his tone slightly. "I've been telling you everything, and you can't even have the decency to reciprocate a little!"

Hermione stood there, holding her jumper close to her throat, and answered in a fierce whisper: "There's nothing to tell you! I just don't take kindly to being groped, thank you very much!"

"I wasn't groping," Harry said, a little abashedly, and took his seat again as Madam Pince came up.

"I shall only warn the two of you this one time," she said severely. "Another outburst and you will have to leave." She eyed both Harry and Hermione down her long and pointy nose. "There are no special privileges to disturb the peace in _my_ library." She sniffed superciliously and minced away on soft-soled shoes.

Hermione scowled after her. "Special privileges... What's she talking about?"

"Filch'll have been feeding her stories of how we're allowed to get away with murder. Well, mostly me," Harry muttered darkly.

"Filch?"

"Oh, sure," he said sourly. "He's my number two admirer. After Snape. The git! I hate him!" Harry's eyes looked like they could burn holes in the table.

Even though Hermione could easily second that sentiment, she was nevertheless taken aback at the vehemence with which Harry spoke. "Hate is a very strong word, Harry." She felt for her seat with her right hand, still holding her top close to her with her left.

"Not strong enough, not for Snape. I loathe him, I _detest_ him. When I think about what he did to me last year, how he's always tried to hurt me... and you!" Harry's eyes snapped up to meet Hermione's, and she was startled at the fervor and emotion she saw there.

"He--" Hermione tried to swallow over a dry throat, but her tongue caught. She didn't want to have to defend Snape, but she also didn't want to get caught up in Harry's irrational hatred of the man. She had a reason to hate him; he didn't. What had he done to Harry, after all? Taunted him during class? Taken House points away without cause? Assigned unjust detentions? He had also tried to protect him from Quirrell/Voldemort. From Sirius Black, whom he'd thought at the time to be a murderer. She sat down heavily. She couldn't believe she was about to do this...

"Harry, I think you're wrong."

Harry glared at her, challenging her to continue.

She sighed. "About Snape. He's tried to protect you. Don't you remem--"

"Protect me!" Harry whisper-shouted in indignation, glancing warily in the direction Madam Pince had gone. "He's done everything but serve me up to Voldemort on a silver platter!"

"Now, that's not quite fair--"

"Fair! Since when has he ever been fair? He hates me because of something my father did. What did I ever do to him, other than be born with the name 'Potter'? I didn't even know my father, and he's been trying to pay me back since I set foot at Hogwarts for every insult, real or imagined, that my father and his friends ever threw at him. I wasn't his enemy when I started here, but he's made me one now." Harry sat back and crossed his arms.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, her brow creasing, "I don't think it's good for you to nurture such feelings. You're only going to hurt yourself in the long run."

Harry sat for a moment, looking like he wanted to argue back, then stood and started packing his things. "Maybe you should give that little lecture to Snape," he said curtly, and looked at her over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. "And yourself, while you're at it. You're nursing some hurt feelings where Ron's concerned much longer than is healthy. For either of you." He shouldered his book-bag and softened his expression. "I'm not angry with _you_, Hermione. There are just some things that you don't understand."

Hermione watched him leave, troubled both by what he had said as well as what she had said. Had she actually come down on Snape's side?

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"What do you know about the Stockholm Syndrome?" Hermione looked at the therapist anxiously.

Teresa Goodwin cleared her throat. "It sometimes occurs in abductions. The victim develops feelings of sympathy for their abductor." She stopped speaking and waited with a look of mild interest on her face.

Hermione nodded. "It's wrong, isn't it. I mean, the abductor is the bad guy. You shouldn't sympathize with him."

"Abduction, taking someone against their will, in fact, making anyone do anything against their will, is certainly wrong," Teresa agreed. "The famous cases of Stockholm Syndrome usually involved brainwashing, or at least long periods of mental and physical coercion and dependency. Feelings that develop out of those situations, I think, need to be examined for their causes."

"So you're saying it's not possible for me to have Stockholm Syndrome, since I wasn't abducted for long enough."

"Do you think you have Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I've been thinking about him." It wasn't necessary for Hermione to explain who she meant. "As a person. What his motivations are. Were. Are... I know, what he did was terrible and wrong, and there was no excuse. He's a miserable, pathetic little man. But I... Maybe he was also forced to do it. What if he was also forced?"

Teresa shrugged. "What if?"

"Then maybe it wasn't his fault. I mean, I know it was his fault. Of course it was his fault. Oh, I don't know. I'm getting confused, thinking about it. I want him to be in the wrong, because he was wrong, but I think I'm starting to understand more of the whole situation, and I don't want to excuse him, but I'm starting to think I have to. That doesn't make any sense." She shook her head, frustrated.

"What is the situation that you're starting to understand?"

"That... Well, remember I told you about the whole organized crime thing, how this was orchestrated by this crime lord. Well, he was just following orders. Yes, he could have disobeyed, but then maybe he would have been killed."

"Does that make it OK for you?" Teresa asked calmly. "That you were victimized in order to save someone else's life?"

"No! Just that... maybe I understand his motivation. Maybe he wasn't doing it to be mean to me, or because he enjoyed it. Maybe he _had_ to."

"Maybe," Teresa allowed. "Does this new insight change your feelings?"

"It-- I thought it did, I thought it would, but I guess not really. I'm still angry at him, but more because he didn't fight back. He could have at least tried! But he would rather have done something awful to me than have something awful happen to him. I guess I understand that, logically, but it still makes me really angry."

"It's lousy."

"It's fucked," Hermione corrected her.

"Yes." Teresa allowed herself a small smile. She had come to know Hermione well enough to know that she didn't often use vulgar language. After a moment, she said, "Hermione, it seems to me that you're looking for an explanation for what happened to you. You're preoccupied with the question of why it happened. That's perfectly understandable. We all like to have certainty. Much of human existence is based on the search for answers. But I don't think it's always possible to have those answers. Sometimes we just have to accept that terrible things happen, and then go on from there. You've done an admirable job of getting on with your life after the rape. I truly admire your strength. But I'm afraid that your continued search for an answer as to why will get you sidetracked. I don't think that will ever be answered to your satisfaction."

Hermione didn't answer. Teresa's words didn't discourage her. Quite the opposite; she felt a greater determination than ever to find out what had really happened that night.

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_Author's Note: Please bear in mind that I'm not trying to excuse rape in any manner. This story is exploring the aftermath of a specific fictional situation. Thanks for reading and reviewing._


	12. Chapter 12: Dying Inside

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_AN: This chapter was updated 29-06-06 with nearly 1,000 words of new material. Important for the plot!_

**CHAPTER 12**

**-- Dying Inside --**

"Hermione, why don't you say something to Ron?" Harry pleaded. She was gathering up her school things from where they were scattered about her, as she had just spotted Ron and Lavender coming back from lunch, their arms wrapped around each other. They stumbled a little with the awkwardness of coming through the portrait hole like that. "You're both miserable with this whole thing," Harry said.

Hermione snorted. "Him? Miserable? So that's what misery looks like." She tossed her head spitefully in the direction of the couple, who were now laughing together on their way to the far corner of the common room.

"Really. Trust me," Harry swore. "He's only acting like that because..." He stopped short, apparently trying to think of a way to end the sentence.

"Because what?" Hermione snapped. "Because he's blissfully happy? Because he's got some brainless girl with low self-esteem giggling all over him?"

"No, because he's trying to cover up how much he's hurting. He misses you." Harry looked quite earnest.

"Oh, really," she replied acidly. "Well, I'm right here. Anytime he wanted to come over and say, 'Hey, Hermione, what's up? How've you been?' he could've done. But he hasn't, has he."

"Neither have you," Harry pointed out.

"I don't make a habit of horning in on other people's boyfriends. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the library. Coming?" She paused, her hand on her hip, studiously ignoring the slurping sounds coming from behind her.

Harry stretched and grinned sheepishly. "No, thanks. I actually thought I'd take a turn around the Quidditch pitch."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I thought you said Slytherin were practicing this afternoon."

"Exactly. Got to keep an eye on the competition, haven't I?"

Hermione pursed her lips, knowing perfectly well that by 'competition' he meant Malfoy. He still hadn't given up dogging the suspected Death Eater's footsteps. "Fine," she said finally. "But don't come begging to me for my notes when N.E.W.T.s roll around. They'll be here sooner than you think, mark my words."

Harry blinked innocently. "Who, me? Beg? You wouldn't make me beg, would you?"

Hermione smiled despite herself. "Oh, Harry. Honestly!"

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"What news do you bring us?" Voldemort demanded.

"Milord, Dumbledore has been absent from the castle for days at a stretch. This week again, he was gone for three days."

"Where does he go?"

"He does not confide in me, Milord."

"Impertinence! _Crucio_!"

The pain clenched in on Snape instantly, reducing his consciousness to a point of light, before receding, leaving him reeling and on his knees.

Voldemort walked into the middle of the circle of robed and masked Death Eaters. "He is planning something. Gathering troops to move against me. Macnair," he said, twirling around to point at a hulking figure, "what news do you have on rounding up those rogue Giants?"

The bulky man spoke in a voice that was thick from nicotine and overuse. "We're tracking the movements of three of them, Milord, including the female that's still hiding in the Carpathians. We should have her on our side or dead by the end of the week. The other two, both males, are moving north; one's currently somewhere in Poland, the other'd made it to within a hundred kilometres of Durmstrang at last report."

"Could he be part of an attack on the school?" Voldemort asked quickly.

Macnair dismissed the idea. "Not on his own. More likely scrounging for food; Vahanian is under orders to trap him if possible when he gets within striking distance, otherwise to kill him."

"We cannot allow even a single Giant to ally itself with Dumbledore," Voldemort announced. "They subjugate themselves to us, or they die."

A murmur of assent spread through the group.

Snape had managed to pull himself to his feet. Voldemort turned on him and poked his wand into the fold of material at Snape's neck. "And you will go back and uncover the secret of our enemy's leaves of absence... and come up with a plan as to how we can best use them to our advantage."

"Milord," Snape acquiesced with a slight inclination of his head.

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"I don't like it, Albus." Minerva stood with her back to the fire in the Headmaster's office, a cup of tea balanced in her hands.

Professor Dumbledore regarded her from his comfortable seat nearby. "Do you imagine that I take pleasure in it? I don't; yet it is necessary."

She fixed him with an intense gaze."It's killing you."

"Yes." The old wizard smiled gently. "But then there are so many dangers in the world. My great-uncle Archibald was killed in an accident with a birthday cake. Pound cake, I believe it was. Unfortunate man."

"Ach," scoffed Minerva. "Archibald Alderton was a fool. You, Albus, are no fool."

"I thank you for that," he replied, his eyes crinkling up with pleasure.

McGonagall paced the small space, her robe silently flaring out. "And that is why I trust you to be doing the right thing, the _wisest_ thing." She stopped and pointed at him with her teacup. "It doesn't mean I have to like it, though."

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid you have more trust in me than I myself have. Sometimes I do wonder at the rightness of it all. As to whether the choices I have made are _wise_... I believe I would say, no, in many cases, they have not been wise. But they seemed the best thing to do at the time. Although I am not, I admit, without regrets."

Minerva took a seat beside him and looked into his eyes, searching the pale blue orbs for answers she knew weren't there. Finally, she said softly, "Albus, tell me, is there nothing more that can be done?"

Dumbledore gently took her hand. "You and I both know there isn't. Severus has managed quite a feat already. I owe him much." He frowned slightly. "Everything."

"And what of him?" Minerva inquired, concerned. "He has seemed preoccupied this term... More than usual. I fear the Defense professorship is taking too much out of him."

"Mmm." Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Perhaps there is something to that curse that Tom put on the position."

Minerva scoffed. "You don't really believe that. _He_ had nothing to do with the Ministry installing that Umbridge woman last year. Nor with Remus's being forced out. No, I'm afraid that Severus's problems stem as well from another source."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And what would that be?"

"The pull of the Dark magic itself," she said in a low voice. "I always thought you were wise to keep him from direct contact with the Dark all these years, although he clearly craved it so desperately."

Dumbledore cocked his head and looked into the fire, absentmindedly caressing the back of Minerva's hand with his thumb. "Again you imbue me with wisdom I am not sure I have. It seemed... prudent at the time, to keep Severus working in an area he excelled at. Gave him confidence. Perhaps too much, though. I do not know. I admit, I am... worried about him. About his--"

"His loyalty?" Minerva spoke pointedly.

Dumbledore shook his head, and his brow furrowed deeply at the crackling blaze. "No. Something much more important. His soul."

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Hermione's heart was beating rapidly and her palms were uncomfortably moist. She hadn't been able to concentrate all hour. Luckily, they had been assigned a reading that she'd already done several weeks ago.

"Coming?" Harry was standing behind her, waiting to go to their next class.

"Yes-- No," she said quickly, "you go on ahead. I just have to ask Professor Snape something."

Harry shrugged and left. Hermione waited until the last stragglers had departed before taking a deep breath and forcing down the butterflies in her stomach. She gripped her book-bag firmly, made sure her robe was properly buttoned up, and then walked on wooden legs to the front desk.

"Miss Granger." Snape busied himself straightening out the stack of parchments which the students had just turned in. "What do you want?"

Hermione checked over her shoulder to double-check that no one was listening in, then said in a voice that suddenly seemed much too loud, "I want to know if you were forced." She struggled to suppress the feeling of disgust that invariably rose into her throat whenever she was near him.

"Forced? In what way, 'forced'?" he said coldly, without looking at her.

"You know what I'm talking about," she said in a low voice that matched his in tone. "Were you forced to do it."

Snape snapped up the parchments. "I told you the topic was closed." He strode away from her, toward the door.

"You can't just close it. You owe me an explanation, at least that," Hermione insisted.

"I owe you nothing. Now get out." He opened the door and stood back, indicating that she was to leave.

Frustration welled up in Hermione's throat, threatening to overflow into tears, but she stood her ground. "I won't leave until you tell me."

"Then _I_ will." Snape started past her, but Hermione jumped in front of him, effectively blocking his egress. "Get out of the way before I hex you," he threatened in a flat voice, dark eyes flashing dangerously.

Hermione nearly slunk out of the way at that, but she knew that if she gave in now, she would never again be able to confront him on this. And so she whispered, with a Gryffindor fierceness, "I hate you, you know. I hate you for what you did. But I've thought about it a lot--" She tossed her head and looked up at the ceiling, exclaiming bitterly, "God, I hardly do anything else but think about it! --and the more I think about it, the more I think you might not have had a choice. But that would mean I couldn't hate you as much as I do." She narrowed her eyes at him and spoke through clenched teeth. "So tell me now, that you weren't forced to do it, so that I can keep hating you with all the depths of my being."

Snape regarded the girl before him with a cool look. No, not a girl. A witch. A remarkable one, at that. He almost regretted what he had been made to do to her. Almost. And so he said with a sneer: "Do you really think that anyone could _force_ me to do anything? Everything that I have ever done, has been my own choice." He paused, and then repeated, in a tone heavy with meaning, "Everything... Now move."

Hermione flattened herself against the wall and let him pass, feeling a cool draft on her cheek as his robe billowed by.

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Hermione sat in the dark, hunched up on her bed. She'd been crying. Lavender made a little moaning sound in her sleep, and Hermione was comforted, even though she suspected 'Won-Won' was the cause of it.

She didn't have any safe places left anymore. She was afraid to go to her favorite spot by the lake, or anywhere outside alone, really, because _he_ might show up again; she couldn't hole up in the library either for the same reason; _he_ had taken those places from her. And her bedroom, the place where most people retreat to when seeking solace, was where the horror had all begun in the first place. She had talked herself into sleeping there again, as long as the other girls were there and she kept her curtains open.

But tonight, sleep was fleeting. Her encounter with Snape had left her shaken. Maybe Teresa was right. She kept going in circles; this was turning into an unhealthy obsession. She confronted Snape--he acted the villain. But that was it: maybe he was just _acting_ the villain.

_Block off your mind. ... I will do my best not to hurt you._ She'd only just remembered those words, spoken to her by the Death Eater who... by Snape, on Hallowe'en. Somehow, the words had gotten lost amidst all the other awful things she'd heard...seen...felt...been subjected to. But now they had bubbled up to the top. She was certain now that he had tried, albeit in a twisted way, to help her. _An unlikely ally._ A great sadness overtook her, causing a fresh onslaught of sobs, which she tried to stifle against her arm.

He truly was a pathetic man, pitiable and wretched. Yes, he had willingly done what he had done -- That -- but he also had some sort of compassion, if one could call it that. He had understood that what he was about to do would hurt her -- and not just physically, else why had he advised her to block off her mind? -- and he had done what he could without drawing undue attention to them, to lessen her suffering. Not that she was grateful to him for that. But it did turn some of her hatred into sorrow. For both of them.

And, she realized now, he hadn't done it to avoid unpleasant consequences to himself, as she had thought when he'd told her in the library that night, _'If I did not carry out my duties, I should be reprimanded. Possibly even punished'_. Or rather, he had, but not because he was afraid of the pain, or even of dying. _'It is not for myself that I fear' _he had told her in Dumbledore's office, and something in his eyes when he said that had been deeply compelling, had spoken to her more than the words expressed. She felt that she was beginning to see the desperation of his situation. And also the depths of the evil that they were up against. That didn't make what he had done right. But it did turn some of her hatred into fear. For all of them.

_Sometimes we are called upon to do something which we would otherwise find so foul that we would rather die than do. _Dumbledore's words to her when she'd found out that it had been Snape. She'd applied them to herself, logically, assuming that Dumbledore was asking her to make a sacrifice in order to give them more time to complete some plan. But they would equally well apply to _him_. She was sure now that they did. That didn't mean that she could forgive him for what he'd done. But she also no longer had the wish that he'd died instead.

+000+000+

_'Was he forced?'_ The words echoed in his mind as bitter as the raki that was in his mouth, and he sucked on it to prolong the sensation. Of course he had been forced. By Dumbledore. Forced to make the choice. Azkaban or The Order. Quick insanity or slow. He swallowed and immediately knocked back the last bit of alcohol in the glass, hoping it would diffuse his thoughts.

Normally, he liked thinking. Planning. Second-guessing. Getting one up on everyone else by his wits. But that was when he had a chance of coming out on top. He couldn't come out on top of this one. And so he didn't want to think about it anymore.

Why couldn't the stupid chit just leave him alone? _Because she's hurting. _Shut up. We all hurt. Hell, he hurt. You didn't see him pestering the Dark Lord about it, did you?

He lurched over to his bed and let himself fall lengthwise onto it. The room was spinning.

He was tired. So tired. He'd already begun his descent into the welcoming blackness when something brought him back up. Annoyed, he ignored whatever it was until he realized with a burst of adrenalin that it was his Mark. He was being Summoned.

Immediately alert and grateful that he'd been too apathetic to remove his robes, he staggered to the cupboard where he kept his mask, then into the bathroom for a Pepper-Up Potion. Within two minutes, he was racing out to meet Draco at the edge of the grounds.

+000+000+

"Why have you not completed your task yet?" Voldemort's tone of voice was not impatient, yet the reproach was clear.

"Milord, an important part of my plan is not yet ready," Draco answered softly, keeping his head bowed, his eyes averted.

"It is nearly the end of another year. Every day, our enemies grow stronger. I can feel the urgency increasing. We cannot afford to waste time. _You_ cannot afford to waste my time." Voldemort's wand hand became twitchy.

Draco shook his head emphatically. "No, I would never--"

"_Crucio_!" Quicker than one would have thought possible, Draco was lying on the floor, back arched, screaming.

Snape watched him impassively. Strange, how he felt not a bit of sympathy for his fellow Slytherin, the boy he had sworn an Unbreakable Vow to protect. But then, he knew that the young Malfoy was not in mortal peril. Not yet.

Abruptly, the Dark Lord switched his attention to Snape. "And you? What news do you bring?"

Snape sniffed derisively. "The old man's age is catching up to him. He is increasingly weak. I agree that the time to strike is ripe." Maybe he could push Voldemort into an early attack; before the Curse had time to destroy the rest of the Headmaster.

"You see? We are counting on you." He nudged Draco with his toe. "Get up."

The rest of the Death Eaters present watched as Draco pulled himself to his feet. None of them would ever have thought to help him. After all, no one had helped them, when they had been the ones writhing in pain at the Dark Lord's feet.

+000+000+

They walked in silence across the dark grounds, both stiff with the cold and lack of sleep. When they reached the castle, Snape perfunctorily unlocked the side door and let them in. "Accompany me to my office. I have a potion that will help you."

"I doubt that," Draco said snidely.

Snape fixed Draco with a haughty glare. "I believe I know a bit more about the effects of the Cruciatus than you, and the magical means of allieving them."

Draco stared at Snape for a moment before replying flatly, "Oh, that."

"Yes, that," Snape repeated testily. "But if you wish to suffer in silence..."

"Well, I do," Draco said coldly. "I always have."

Snape paused, appeared to be sizing the youth up. "You know I'm here to help you, Draco. I'm on your side in this." There was no sympathy or compassion in his words. Just a statement, which could just as well be taken as an order.

"I told you before, I don't need your help!" Draco spoke fiercely, trying to keep his voice down. "I stood there tonight and took it, didn't I? Haven't I proven I'm as much a man as you or any of the rest of them? Why do you keep treating me like a child?" Belying his words, a trace of petulance crept into his tone.

"Because you are one!" Snape retorted. "You are sixteen years old, and you have no idea of the depths you're wading in. You think this is just some homework assignment you've been given by your new teacher, to test your loyalty, or prove how clever you are. This is real, Draco! This is life and death. I don't believe that you are fully aware of that fact."

Draco, silent now, watched the black-haired wizard with eyes that were slightly widened.

"I made a Vow to protect you, aid you in your task!" Snape continued. "Don't think I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, or because of any noble or tender feelings. I don't know the meaning of those things. But I do know that a man honors his commitments, doesn't piddle about, trying this and that, things that have no hope of working anyway, just to buy time. The Dark Lord was right tonight, Draco. You are wasting our time. You have been entrusted with a key assignment, and you are in the process of blowing it.

"You had better make a move, and quickly. Every moment of hesitation is another moment during which you, or I, may be exposed. And I will not allow that to happen. You will not ruin something that has taken longer than your lifetime to set up. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded. "Yes, sir." He understood. And, not for the first time, he trembled.

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	13. Chapter 13: Preparing for the Party

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 13**

**- Preparations for the Christmas Party -**

"Lovely, really outstanding!" Slughorn exclaimed when he stopped by Harry's cauldron. "Just look at that colour! You don't mind, do you, Harry--" Without waiting for an answer, Slughorn swooped a dipper into the cauldron and scooped up a sample of the potion, then let the brilliant green liquid dribble back down in a viscous thread.

"And the consistency!" he marveled, his beady eyes transfixed on the aqueous material. "I don't think I've seen a more homogeneous mixture of Skele-Gro." He dipped his ladle back into the cauldron and brought up a couple more samples. "Not a lump. Well, once again, highest marks for Mr. Potter, and I think we'll just send this batch up to Madam Pomfrey for use in the infirmary." He beamed and ruffled Harry's hair.

Hermione suppressed her by-now usual outrage at Harry's potions miracles and concentrated instead on bottling a sample of her own brew, which was also just the right shade, although, yes, a tad thicker than Harry's. She shook the sample vigorously in an attempt to loosen it up, and was considering adding just the tiniest drop of wormwood alcohol when she was distracted by hearing Draco's voice, speaking just a bit louder than necessary:

"Remind me not to break anything in the next month or so... I wouldn't want to end up poisoned, or with rubber bones or something!" He laughed cruelly, and his Slytherin compatriots joined him.

Slughorn chuckled indulgently. "I daresay you'd better keep all your bones intact, young Mr. Malfoy. Can't have our best Seeker sitting on the sidelines, now can we?"

"No, Sir," Draco replied automatically, but he kept watching Harry with a smug look on his face, then whispered something to Blaise which caused the other boy to laugh even harder.

"Samples, everyone, please," Slughorn called out as he waddled back to the front of the classroom.

Ron glumly stoppered his greyish potion, but not without first sneaking a jealous look at Hermione's results. Without a word to her, he shuffled up to Slughorn's desk with the rest of the class.

Hermione hung back, so as not to accidentally be jostled against anyone. She was still extremely jumpy about anyone touching her. Susan Bones had bumped into her inadvertently during Herbology the previous day, and she had spent the remainder of the period fighting off the feeling of physical disgust.

Finally, when most of the others had cleared out, Hermione walked quickly to the front and placed her labeled sample in the row of little bottles already deposited there. She was in the process of turning around when Slughorn spoke up.

"Oh, Miss Granger!"

A flutter of impatience arose in her. "Yes, sir?" It wasn't that she disliked Professor Slughorn per se. It was just that anything associated with Slytherin House made her uneasy.

"I'm certainly looking forward to seeing whom you bring with you to my little soiree next week," he said in a sly manner. "You wouldn't care to give me a little hint, would you?"

It took Hermione a moment to realize he was talking about the Slug Club Christmas party. "Oh, erm, no, that is... I don't have an escort. It isn't necessary, is it?" She felt her face growing red, aware that there were still students in the classroom who were listening in, and she didn't feel like having her social life spread around for public discussion. Especially Ron; she hadn't forgotten that they had agreed that he would accompany her. But that was a part of another life, now. He surely didn't want to be reminded of it any more than she did. Well, it was his own fault, she thought, now with the stirrings of hurt feelings. If he weren't such an insensitive gob, they might still have been able to salvage their friendship.

Slughorn's caterpillar-like eyebrows reared up. "Oh ho, no escort! We can't have that, can we. It is not so much a necessity as a not-to-be-missed opportunity. Why, there must be dozens of chaps who'd give their eye teeth to be included."

"I don't know," Hermione started, and then, both anxious not to appear uninterested in his party, and with a soupçon of spite (and hoping that Ron was still within earshot) she improved, "I haven't found anyone I felt was worthy of the honor." That felt good! She resisted the urge to turn around and see Ron's reaction.

Slughorn appeared pleased by this response and leaned over, beckoning Hermione to come closer. She did, and he said in a gravelly whisper, "I understand perfectly. I must say, I've already picked out the cream of the Hogwarts crop for membership in our little 'Slug Club', and I don't blame you for despairing of finding anyone else suitable. Therefore, you might find it of no little interest to hear that a certain seventh year in your very House has also not settled on the right escort for the most important social event of the year." Slughorn studied her face to make sure she had gotten his drift, then gave her a broad wink and grin before straightening up.

"Oh" was all she could bring out at first, but after a moment managed a "thank you, Professor" and retreated in the wake of his good-natured chuckle.

McLaggen! Slughorn was trying to set her up with that Quaffle-for-brains ape! Hermione wasn't sure whether to get angry or cry. She registered vaguely that Ron was still there with Harry, but brushed off Harry's question as to what she and Slughorn had been discussing and hurried off to Charms.

+++000+++000+++

"Show it to me, Draco," Pansy purred into his ear, running her fingers along his left arm. "You know how it turns me on."

"Get off me, witch!" Draco growled, yanking his arm away from her grasp. "I'm thinking!"

Pansy deposited herself on the ground at Draco's feet. "That's what I love about you, Draco," she said in a sultry voice. "You take your responsibilities seriously. You know what your priorities are. You're a real man, not like _some_ I could mention." She tossed her head derisively in the direction of a pack of their Housemates, who were chortling and snickering over a _Playwizard_ magazine.

"They have their uses," Draco said absently, rubbing his finger against his chin.

"And me?" Pansy asked with a mixture of slyness and hopefulness. "You know I'll do anything to help."

Draco fixed her with a frown. "You have no idea what my plans involve."

"It doesn't matter," she assured him. "I trust you, Draco. Since you took..." Her glance flicked in the direction of his arm. "Well, you know," she whispered, "I trust you implicitly." She looked at him steadily with her greyish-green eyes, and Draco wasn't sure whether her motivation was a simple teenage crush, or whether she was trying to attach herself to what she saw as a rising star.

Either way, it didn't matter, he didn't want to involve her. He liked her. Not that he'd do anything stupid like die for her or propose marriage, but she was a good girl. He didn't have as many qualms about using Crabbe and Goyle for his purposes (not that he'd ever asked them to do anything directly dangerous); they were pawns, born to be expendable. Pansy was... Well, the chess analogy broke down, but she was just someone he didn't want to put in danger. Draco had no more illusions about what he was doing. Not since what had happened to the girl who'd touched the Cursed necklace. Not since what had gone down on Halloween. He was moving in dangerous circles, and he'd be lucky to get himself out alive. There was no need to bring down the entire House with him.

At the same time, he recognized these compunctions--these scruples--as a weakness. If he wanted to get anywhere in the Death Eater organization, he would have to, as Snape had said, get rid of his conscience. He couldn't allow himself any sentimentality. It was him or them. Dumbledore's life or his mother's. The choice was easy, really. So why was it so hard?

+++000+++000+++

"Wouldn't I just love to get my hands on that _lurvely_ arse of his?" Hermione heard a vaguely familiar, somewhat nasal voice just outside the cubicle, followed by a chorus of titters and giggles. There must be at least four of them out there. Hermione had heard the group come in just after her, and had quickly ducked into the toilet stall and bolted the door. She didn't much feel like exchanging pleasantries, in the case that she knew the girls, or putting up with awkward stares, if she didn't.

As a Prefect, she was not well-liked amongst some cliques. Most cliques. All right, to be perfectly honest, no one much liked her at all. Not even Ron, anymore. Only Harry could be considered any sort of friend, and he was just too occupied with More Important Things. Hermione had never really thought about it that way before. It hurt. She was unpopular; more than that, disliked. She suddenly didn't want to be at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry anymore. She wanted to go away, far away. But she couldn't drop out of school, because where would she go? Back to her Muggle parents? She should be preparing for her A levels by her age, but since she'd never even sat her GCSEs, she didn't have any very bright prospects there. So here she was, forced to remain at a place where nobody liked her, and where she was daily confronted with the presence of the man who had sexually assaulted her.

"Did you see the jeans he had on at the last Hogsmeade weekend?" another girl responded to the first. "Luscious, I tell you! It's too bad the school robes cover up so much. I mean, a girl only needs to unbutton the front a bit--"

"A bit, Isadora, we don't want to see your navel!" a third girl shrieked.

"It's not like you've got anything to show anyway. You're flat as a boy," the second girl remarked disdainfully.

Giggles were drowned out by Isadora continuing, "A boy doesn't have half a chance to show much of anything off, does he? Shoulders, arse, they're all covered by all that material."

"I bet he's got the most toned pecs," the nasal voice mused.

"Who?"

"Harry, of course!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course. Harry had achieved a sort of cult status among the lower-classmen. Well, lower-classgirls, strictly speaking. Since his vindication after the Department of Mysteries adventure and the public announcement of "Lord Voldemort's" return, it seemed like every pubescent female at the school was scheming to get into his pants. Is that all anyone at this entire school ever thought about? Sex? Hermione was disgusted. There was a war brewing, for goodness' sake! They should be concentrating on serious topics, paying attention to politics, learning how to defend themselves, not pondering Harry Potter's anatomy. She peered carefully out through the crack between the door and the wall, but only was only able to catch a glimpse of sleek, black hair.

"He doesn't have a date for Slughorn's party yet, does he?"

"Not that I've heard," a softer voice answered quickly.

"Then I've still got a chance." Hermione was finally able to identify the nasal voice as that of Romilda Vane, a fourth-year Gryffindor. She was quite bossy and more than a little unsympathetic, in Hermione's opinion.

"You?" Someone else tittered. "Don't make me laugh. Since when has he ever so much as looked in your direction?"

_Quite right_, Hermione thought indignantly. They were all a gaggle of silly geese. Harry wouldn't waste his time with a single one of them.

"He was going to sit with me on the train," Romilda bragged, "but his stupid friends made him go with them."

"Really?" one girl asked eagerly.

"Would I lie?"

No one answered that, and for a moment there was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, there's still time," the soft-spoken girl said encouragingly. "Maybe he's just trying to work up the nerve. Maybe his friends are trying to talk him out of it!"

"I can't wait for that; the party's tomorrow. I have a plan." Hermione could just see the sly look on Romilda's face. This announcement was greeted with excited exclamations and eager pleas to let them in on it.

"All right, all right, I'll tell you," Romilda finally said. "But you have to promise not to breathe a word to a soul... I've got this love potion--"

Hermione's Prefect side took over, and she banged the cubicle door open.

"Hand it over! Love potions are illegal!" she announced with a scowl, looking around for the offending item, but not seeing anything suspicious. Romilda must have stashed it back in her bag.

The other girls started back in surprise. Romilda was the first one to recover. "Is that what the Prefects have to stoop to to fulfill their quota of point deductions? Hiding out in the toilets and eavesdropping on innocent, unsuspecting students? I've a good mind to report this to Professor McGonagall." She regarded Hermione with open dislike.

"I was not eavesdropping," Hermione said firmly. "I just happened to overhear your rather loud and public conversation. I distinctly heard you say you have a love potion in your possession, which is not allowed in the school."

Romilda instantly thrust her bookbag at Hermione. "Here, look for yourself, Miss Smarty. You won't find anything more incriminating than a tube of Kiss-N-Tell Lipgloss, and you can be my guest and go ahead and listen to what it has to say. It's probably the closest to any action you'll get this year." She smirked unpleasantly.

"I'm sure I don't want to touch your... things," Hermione answered back with a grimace of her own. "You probably just pawned the love potion off on one of your friends, or Vanished it, for all I know. Just consider this a warning... All of you," she said, glaring pointedly at the other girls as well. "And I'll be warning Harry about you," she added to Romilda.

"Oh, yes, do give him my regards, won't you?" Romilda said snootily. "And ask him why, if you're so close to him, he's never asked you out? I do believe he prefers girls who take a little more care with their appearance." She gave Hermione the once-over, from her unwashed split ends to her potion-stained robe to her baggy black stockings.

Hermione clenched her fists and felt herself grow hot all over. "Just... watch out," she ground out. "I'll make sure you don't get away with... whatever it is you're planning." She held her head up stiffly and walked past the group.

"Ooh, I'm shaking, I'm sure," Romilda taunted after her.

Once she was out in the hall, just as the door swung shut behind her, Hermione could hear them laughing.

+++000+++000+++

"Errrgh!" Hermione let out a muffled little scream of frustration and slammed her bookbag down onto her bed. The Slytherins certainly didn't have the patent on bitchiness. Fantasies arose in her mind of Romilda's lips swelling beyond all proportion thanks to a well-placed Bubble-Lip charm, or -- even better -- putting an end to her bluster (and kissing ability) with a Langlock Curse on that slippery little tongue.

But she was a Prefect. She couldn't afford to break the rules...again, she thought with a massive twinge of guilt. What she'd done to Ron with the birds had been a real wake-up call to her. She was losing control. Her emotions were battling to get the better of her. She could never, _never_, allow that to happen again.

Dashing away the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she risked a glance in the direction of the full-length mirror in the corner between Parvati's and Lavender's beds. She hadn't used it in weeks.

She'd seen the necessity of checking her face in the over-sink mirror in the bathroom before heading off to class, just to reassure herself that there was no toothpaste smeared on her chin or anything similar which might cause others to stare at her, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to face the image of her body. Feet were acknowledged to carry her where she needed to go; hands to write, eat, and carry. Everything in between was shrouded in a sort of haze that only lifted briefly for purposes of hygiene.

Now, she talked herself into regarding her mirror image by pretending it was someone else that she was looking at. It was a female of the species, fully grown, of medium height, youthful but not entirely healthy in appearance. The long brown hair was dull and kinky and flew away from her head in every possible direction. The face looked pale and drawn; the eyes surrounded by dark smudges. The lips were dry and peeling. The body was of indeterminate mass, the indeterminacy due to the covering of limp and bulky clothing. Said apparel showed signs of not having been washed recently. A loose string hung from the sleeve. Neglected was the first adjective that sprung to mind. Careless. Slovenly.

Hermione now allowed herself to recognize the figure. It was her. This is what she looked like. This is what he had made her into. She could feel the beginnings of a great ball of despair forming.

No! She wouldn't let him control her life! She had to take the control back. She and Teresa had talked about that. Her life did not consist of one horrific night. It was just one part of a broad range of experiences that had made Hermione to what she was. She had to stop living solely in reaction to those six hours. And so she made a decision. A brave decision.

She hastily rid herself of her clothing and stuffed it in the hamper, then headed for the showers.

+++000+++000+++

"Knock-knock!"

Snape looked up from the second-year essays at the walrus mustache and the rotund, padded blue velvet waistcoat beneath it. He made an impatient sound and indicated that Slughorn should enter.

"Severus! Burning the midnight oil as usual, I see," the Potions instructor remarked.

Snape grunted noncommitally and narrowed his eyes at the approaching elderly wizard. A social climber and spineless coward who didn't even have the guts to run away and hide properly in order to save his skin when the water started getting hot. Had to get protection from the Gryffindors instead. But then, who was he to judge? Hadn't he done exactly the same thing? Did this physical wreck of a man wheezing toward him, his broken spirit seeping through all his convivial chatter, portent Snape's own future? No, he thought with a bitter satisfaction. He himself would be dead before two years were out.

"Well, m'boy," Slughorn sighed out, lowering his bulk heavily onto one of the students' desks. "I've just come to make sure you turn up to my little fete tomorrow."

"I doubt that will be possible," Snape said while returning his eye and quill to the essay before him.

"I thought that would be your answer," Slughorn said, "and I assure you I am quite insulted. Yes, I am," he said defensively, in response to Snape's sceptically raised eyebrow. "Head of my own House won't even pop 'round for a holiday nosh."

"I doubt that my presence will be missed in the crush of egg-nog-drinking revelers and VIPs you have no doubt booked for the occasion."

"Au contraire, Severus, au contraire. Why, Aucepus Underwood told me that he was looking foward to seeing you in particular-- Yes, he named you by name," he said in answer to Snape's other eyebrow going up. "How did he put it? 'I should be interested in seeing what sort of situation the lad's made for himself at the school,' or something to that effect. I shouldn't want to disappoint Aucepus if I were you, he's got quite some clout in the Wizard Financial Regulatory Authority; didn't know he was keeping tabs on your career, be quite flattered if I were you--"

Snape let Slughorn's rambling wash over him. Aucepus Underwood: One of the New Cadre, a DE recruit since the Dark Lord's return. So he was being checked up on. Or was it Draco who was the target of the inspection? He had to assume that either or, more likely, both, were the case.

He knew that he was on tender footing since Hallowe'en, his once rock-solid position with Voldemort weakened by his less than stellar performance. Why couldn't he just have done what was expected, rather than try something so quasi-heroic as to border on the Gryffindorish? He'd spent too much time with Dumbledore over the summer; allowed his character to be sullied by the old man's sense of integrity. It's not that he wasn't principled, himself. But the sort of job that he had to do was incompatible with virtue and honour.

"--can't let good old Slytherin be shown up by the likes of Pomona Sprout and her band of snuffly badgers, now can we? Hm?" Slughorn paused, evidently having noticed that Snape's attention had drifted.

"A cete," Snape enunciated crisply, making a slashing motion across the parchment.

"Pardon?"

"A cete. A cete of badgers is the correct term."

Slughorn's loose jowls spread into a delighted grin. "Now, then, you see? Got to show the others that it's Slytherin who know what's what. Knew you'd see it my way. Eight o'clock, then, my office. I'll reserve a special glass of the '83 for you!"

Snape exhaled forcefully through his nostrils. He would be there, of course. But not to do old "Sluggy" a favour, nor to put on a good face for the others. It would simply be to keep an eye out for any "accidents". He wouldn't put it past Draco to use the opportunity to get close to the Headmaster and try to pull off another one of his amateurish assassination attempts. He was still appalled that Malfoy, Jr. had even managed to get his hands on that Cursed necklace; the stupid girl-- Bell-- was just lucky she hadn't been killed. Not that it would have been any threat to Dumbledore whatsoever; the thing had been so positively reeking of Dark magic that the canny old Headmaster would have spotted it out at ten yards. It was more the potential collateral damage that Snape was trying to control at this point.

+++000+++000+++


	14. Chapter 14: Slughorn's Christmas Party

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_AN: First of all, my great appreciation to everyone who reviewed and PM'd me, letting me know how much you liked this story despite its dark theme. I hope I do it, and you, justice._

_Some dialogue in this chapter is copied directly from HBP, Chapter Fifteen, 'The Unbreakable Vow'._

**Chapter 14**

**Slughorn's Christmas Party**

"--wasn't actually surprised when the ol' Slug told me you were still looking for someone to go with tonight. I mean, look at what you had to choose from: Potter -- big-headed sod. Can't figure what McGonagall was thinking, naming him Captain, 'specially after he were banned for life!" McLaggen's heavy brow came down even further, practically obscuring his eyes. "The whole lot of them need to be cleared out, bloody pansies. Don't think a one of 'em's got a competitive bone in their body. That's why they shut me out, you know. Couldn't handle the competition. Thought I'd make them look bad -- well, anyone would, of course," he added matter-of-factly, "'s not entirely their fault. It's a simple fact that I've got the moves--"

Hermione gritted her teeth and stalked along the corridor beside her 'date' for the evening. Aside from a grunted "Ya look all right" when she met up with him in the Gryffindor common room, he hadn't let up talking about his prowess at Quidditch, or how glad she should be that he hadn't found any girl up to standard for attending the Christmas party with him, not neglecting to mention that the only reason he was going with her was as a personal favour to Slughorn.

Hogwarts' halls were nearly empty, most students spending their last evening before the winter holiday in their common rooms or dorms, partying with their friends. On the one hand, Hermione was glad for the excuse not to be in Gryffindor tower tonight; Ron had already had his tongue halfway down Lavender's throat in full view of everyone. Hermione was sure he'd positioned himself so that she couldn't miss them on her way out with McLaggen.

The downside of her means of escape was that now she was saddled with this caveman for the evening. He'd already tried to put his arm around her once, but she'd shrugged him off with a disgusted grimace and kept up a brisk pace on the way to Professor Slughorn's office.

It wouldn't have been strictly necessary for her to have an escort for the party; she could have gone alone. But she had needed to assert herself; maybe even to reassure herself that she could be attractive to a boy--and Cormac McLaggen did, by dint of anatomy, belong to that category, even if she herself did not find him attractive in the least. She had needed to prove that _he_, what he did to her, would not stop her from leading a normal life. It had ruined everything between her and Ron, and she certainly wasn't looking for any sort of romantic relationship (the thought of it made her dizzy with panic), but it was the _appearance_ of normalcy that counted. She had to _appear_ to be engaged in her classes, including Defense; she had to _appear_ to care about how she looked; she had to _appear_ to be worried about nothing more than her grades.

Oonagh had managed to do so from the beginning. True, she was more combative, short-tempered, and angry than she had been before, but that was easily chalked up by anyone who might give it a second thought to her worries about her N.E.W.T.s. No one gave her strange looks or whispered about her. Hermione wanted to be like that. She wanted everything to be normal again, where the only remarks that were made about her concerned her status as a Muggleborn, her unmanageable hair, and her overzealous attitude toward her studies. Those were things she could deal with. Snape's wand, Malfoy's curled lip, and rumours of her romantic involvements were, at the moment, not. But the reality was that those were the things that she was confronted with daily.

When they arrived before Professor Slughorn's office, Hermione was about to knock, but McLaggen reached out and beat her to it. He looked down at her with what may have been supposed to be a chivalrous smile, but to Hermione it came off as nothing more than a condescending smirk. She stared straight ahead at the plain wooden door, readying herself for what was sure to be one of the most unpleasant evenings of the term, post-Hallowe'en, and was taken fully by surprise when she felt Cormac grab her elbow and pull her next to him. She tried to pull away, but he only held on to her all the more firmly.

"Let go!" she cried, pushing at him.

"You're mine for the evening, so get over it already," he retorted roughly. "You'd think you'd be a little more grateful, Granger. It's not like anyone else'd have you!"

Hermione would have turned heel right then and there, had the door not been yanked open by a red-nosed and effluvient Slughorn.

"There you are, my two Gryffindors!" he boomed. "Knew you wouldn't miss it. Come in, come in..." His pudgy, liver-spotted hand grabbed McLaggen's arm and drew the couple in to the hazy din. "Madam Depplethwaite's all in a tizzy over you, young man," he babbled, leading them through the crowd. "Hortense Depplethwaite, her second husband was Bertie Higgs, I'm sure your Uncle Tiberius mentioned him--"

Hermione let herself be pulled along, trying not to bump into anyone. She had to pull her chest in to avoid it dragging against the back of a tall, pale wizard who was standing next to a small man with glasses. The man's gaze seemed to bore into her, and she had to look away. Harry-- Where was Harry? He was supposed to be here, too. She tried to look around, but the sea of robes was too thick, and she was too short to take in more than her immediate neighbors. If only she could get away from McLaggen, try to get near Harry. Then she would feel at least a little bit safer. This had been a mistake, coming to the party. She wasn't ready. She was already feeling a panicky dizziness coming over her, and her stomach was turning.

Slughorn had deposited the pair of them in the company of a very tall, elderly witch in a purple brocade robe and her shorter companion, an even more elderly witch with a hunched back. The hunchback peered at McLaggen and Hermione with watery eyes.

"Is that Byron?" she inquired in a reedy, yet surprisingly strong voice. "Come here, boy, I can't smell you properly!"

McLaggen looked slightly revolted and pulled a face. "Not Byron!" he bellowed, apparently on the assumption that the crone's hearing was as bad as her sense of smell. "McLaggen! Cormac McLaggen!"

The short witch sniffed at the air, then wrinkled her nose. "Smells like Quidditch," she grunted.

"Excuse me," Hermione said quickly, extricating her arm from McLaggen's, "but I need to get a drink. It was nice to meet you," she tossed out toward the witches, and slipped away before anyone could protest.

She made for the nearest wall and slunk along it until she reached the bar, where she requested an egg nog. Clutching the mug with both hands, she wandered through the crowd, looking for a private spot where she could sit and gather her thoughts. She saw Melinda Bobbin, the daughter of the apothecary magnate, tossing her head back and laughing at something with a clutch of witches who looked equally moneyed. And there was Blaise Zabini, the utter prat, hanging on the edge of a group of older wizards. She quickly ducked into an archway to make sure he didn't see her. He'd given her enough funny looks in their common classes that she felt certain he knew what had happened to her.

It dawned on her that he might have been there as well that night. She'd never really thought of him as Death Eater material, not like Draco, but then what did she know; if even a Hogwarts professor was a Death Eater, then anyone could be. She remembered the drink in her hands and looked down at the creamy, yellowish liquid, speckled with brown. She felt sick. She was looking around for someplace to dump it, when all of a sudden someone was standing in front of her, someone big, and too close: McLaggen.

"There you are," he said. "Thought you might have given me the slip. Got your drink, have you?"

Hermione nodded and tried to back away from him, but she bumped into the archway behind her. "I... don't like it, though. Here, you can have it." She pushed the mug at him, forcing him to take it.

He sniffed the drink. "What is this?" he said, his face scrunched up in distaste.

"Egg nog," Hermione said, trying to appear cheerful. "It's really very good. I just... The excitement, you know, can't stomach anything sweet."

Cormac took a tentative sip, then nodded. "Not bad." He drank the rest, tipping his head back, and his eyes opened in surprise. When he lowered the mug, there was a thin line of milk rimming his lips, which were spreading into a grin. He licked the milk away.

"Ah, Hermione," he purred. "I don't think you realize just how lucky you are."

"Excuse me?" she said, feeling now very nervous. What had gotten into him? Had the drink been spiked with some potion?

Cormac pointed up with one finger. "Standing under the mistletoe, you are," he said, and placed one hand on the wall beside her, blocking her in.

She glanced up at the top of the archway, and there was the sprig of shiny, green leaves with a cluster of white berries.

"Oh," she gulped, and at that moment, a flash of blonde hair caught her eye. She feared at first that it was Draco, but then the crowd shifted, and she saw Luna quite clearly. And with her was Harry! "Erm, right, Cormac, just hold that thought, will you? Be right back," she said quickly, and ducked under his arm.

She hurried to the spot she had seen Harry standing in, but when she got there, he had already moved on. She whirled around, only to hear, to her great relief, Harry's voice calling to her: "Hermione!"

"Harry!" she exclaimed as Harry emerged from between what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters. He was dragging Luna behind him. "There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna!" She couldn't have been happier to see the two friendly faces.

"What's happened to you?" asked Harry, giving her a once-over. Her face was flushed, her hair escaping from the bun she had attempted to confine it to, and she was slightly out of breath.

"Oh, I've just escaped -- I mean, I've just left Cormac. Under the mistletoe," she added pointedly.

"Serves you right for coming with him," he commented, rather coldly.

Hermione's happiness quickly faded. That hurt. If only he knew how much agony she had gone through to even get here. And here he was, berating her for having come with McLaggen, his Quidditch rival. Or, no, she quickly reconsidered, he probably meant that she should have come with someone else... Who? Certainly not him. He'd had plenty of opportunity to ask her to come with him, and clearly, like at the Yule Ball two years previous, had not considered her enough of a 'date'. Now it all became clear: Harry thought she should have invited Ron; he still thought she should be the big one and make the first move toward repairing their friendship. It was true, she and Ron had had sort of an agreement that Ron would accompany her tonight, but that had been months ago. Before Hallowe'en. Even though she knew that he couldn't know why things had gone wrong between her and Ron, it still made her angry that he seemed to be blaming her for it.

"I thought he'd annoy Ron most," Hermione retorted in a petty manner. "I debated for a while about Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole--"

"You considered Smith?" Harry gasped.

"Yes, I did," Hermione said, pleased at being able to get Harry's goat so easily, "and I'm starting to wish I'd chosen him. McLaggen makes Grawp look like a gentleman." Speaking of McLaggen, she looked anxiously around; she had a feeling he would be turning up any moment. "Let's go this way," she suggested, leading Harry and Luna towards an open space before the hearth, where a roaring fire was blazing; it was already uncomfortably warm in the room, which probably explained why the others were giving that particular spot a wide berth.

When they got there, they unfortunately found that Professor Trelawney had gotten there first; perhaps that explained the lack of other people just as well as the heat did. After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable small talk with the obviously tipsy teacher, and some more needling from Harry about her choice of escort for the evening, Hermione had had enough, and was just about to launch into an angry diatribe, when Cormac McLaggen, exhibiting remarkable persistence, loomed into view. And he did not look happy. Without so much as bidding good-bye to either Harry or Luna, Hermione dashed off headlong across the room. That was it. She was leaving.

She pushed her way through the other guests, not caring now about touching anyone, muttering insincere _Excuse me's_ as she went. She had almost reached the door when she felt a light, restraining hand on her upper arm.

"Watch where you're going, you disrespectful-- Oh." The voice stopped short.

Hermione looked up into the frowning eyes of Professor Snape. He released her arm. Neither of them said anything. She slowly backed up, and he turned equally slowly back to his conversation partner, still, she was certain, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She felt like she was suffocating. The party, everything, was swept out of her mind. There was only one thought in her mind: escape. The door. She had to get to the door. It must be right behind her-- She turned and lurched forward, scrabbling at the handle until it gave way.

Hermione stumbled out into the corridor. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and she felt prickly all over. He had touched her! she thought in horror. She could still feel the slight pressure on her upper arm where the contact had occurred. It was like every inch of her skin was crawling, and she wanted to scream. Just scream and rub all of the contamination away, only it was everywhere, it was on her hands, too, and she couldn't scream, or everyone would come out to see what was going on, and where could she go! She had to get away! She started running, she didn't know where to, anywhere, just away. She was almost at the end of the corridor when she heard someone coming; students, probably, from the sound of their voices, but she couldn't let anyone see her, and so she wrenched open the nearest door and stumbled into the darkened room.

She bumped into chairs, a desk, smelt old wood and dusty upholstery. She collapsed on the floor, shaking. She was shivering, but she felt hot all over. There were spots before her eyes, silver spots in the darkness, and she realized she was about to faint, so she lay down on the hard, wooden floor and put her knees up. Oh, God. When was this going to be over?

She'd been doing so well, she thought; she thought she could handle anything again. Teresa had told her she should try to take active decisions in her life, do things that normal people did. Normal people. That was rich. She wasn't normal people. She was ugly and ruined and she would never have a normal life. The tears coursed down her face as she tried to swallow her sobs.

A little while later, she had calmed down enough to sit up. Everything was so terrible. She wiped her face on her sleeve. She should drop out. She'd be going home tomorrow anyway, for the Christmas break. Only she didn't know how she was going to face her parents. She hadn't told them what had happened, for so many reasons: because it was so embarrassing, because she didn't want their pity, didn't want them to look at her differently, because she didn't want them to worry about her, because if she did tell them, all of it, especially the part that the perpetrator was currently one of her professors, they would never let her come back. And so she would have to go on pretending. That was also why she couldn't drop out: if she did, her parents would demand an explanation, and she didn't think 'I've changed my mind about being a witch' would cut it.

She emitted a heavy sigh and was about to get up, to go where she didn't know yet, when she heard someone at the door. With all haste, she scrambled on all fours to get behind a desk. Luckily, the room was dark, so she was fairly certain that she was safely hidden before the intruder entered. Intruders, plural, as it turned out, and the very last two people she wanted to see at that moment: Snape and Malfoy.

"Get in here," Snape hissed, and flung Malfoy bodily into the room before raising the light level with a command. The sconces on the walls flared to life around her. Hermione didn't dare to move a muscle, not even to crouch down further. She hardly even dared to breathe.

"What do you mean by showing up like this?" Snape demanded of Draco, livid. "And do not try and tell me you were interested in that party!"

"How do you know? Maybe I was," Draco said insolently.

"You are clever enough to have wormed an invitation out of someone, had you truly wanted to be there. Mr. Filch said you were skulking about in a corridor upstairs."

"What I am up to is my own business. _He_ obviously has enough faith in me, you'd think you'd trust his judgement enough to let me get on with it in my own way."

Despite her panicked state, Hermione couldn't help but be intrigued by the conversation. Who were they talking about? Hermione wondered. Mr. Filch? Why should Snape trust Filch's judgement when it came to Draco?

"Your own way is on the best course to exposing yourself, and myself."

"Exposing you," Draco mimicked derisively. "I hardly need to do that. You're doing a good job of it yourself. Only it's not being exposed as a Death Eater that you need to be worried about; it's being exposed as a weakling, an old man gone soft, maybe even as a traitor to the cause!"

There was the sound of a chair being pushed aside, and then Hermione heard Snape, in a voice quivering with rage: "Never question my loyalty!"

"I'm not the only one," Draco continued, rather audaciously, in Hermione's opinion.

"There are things, Draco, things you do not understand."

"Try me."

That was exactly what Hermione wanted to say, and she hoped that Snape would continue, that Draco would draw him out. However...

"I do not need to justify myself to you. Suffice it to say that I know what I am doing. You, however, do not. You are sloppy, impatient, and imprudent. That stunt with the necklace-- You are just lucky that it got derailed when it did. You cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled--"

"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?" Draco burst out.

"I hope you are telling the truth," Snape said in a dangerous voice, "because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."

"Who suspects me?" said Malfoy angrily. "For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about -- don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work -- I can stop you!"

Hermione's thoughts were whirling, trying to place all the references. The necklace? The Bell girl? Had Draco had something to do with Katie being cursed?

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, "Ah ... Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from him, I just don't want you butting in!" Draco's voice sounded slightly hysterical.

"So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference?" Snape mocked. "You realise that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco --"

"So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" Malfoy retorted.

There was another pause. Then Snape said, "You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office, then!"

Snape lowered his voice to a whisper, so that Hermione had to strain to hear. "Listen to me. I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco--"

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it. I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!"

Once again this mysterious 'he'. Although Hermione now thought she had a pretty good idea of who it was: Voldemort.

"What is your plan?" Snape demanded.

"It's none of your business!" Draco shouted.

Snape changed tactics, now sounding almost caring. "If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you--"

"I've got all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!" Draco snapped.

Snape's voice quickly became cold and superior again. "You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup. Those are elementary mistakes--"

"I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!"

"Keep your voice down!" Snape warned him. "If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres--"

"What does it matter?" said Malfoy. "Defence Against the Dark Arts - it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts --"

"It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!" said Snape. "Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance on assistants like Crabbe and Goyle--"

"They're not the only ones," he said defensively. "I've got other people on my side, better people!"

"Then why not confide in me, and I can--"

"I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!"

There was another pause, and then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but--"

Quite abruptly, Hermione heard the sound of boots against the wood floor, and the door being flung open.

"Damn," muttered Snape, and then a second set of footsteps distanced themselves from her, but not as quickly as the first. They paused, and Hermione thought that Snape would extinguish the lights, but instead he simply closed the door behind himself, carefully.

Hermione didn't move for several more minutes, afraid that Snape, or Malfoy, would return. That had been a very strange conversation. Katie and the necklace... Death Eaters... the Unbreakable Vow... Snape's loyalty. She really did not want to think about it all right now. She just wanted to sleep. And to wake up tomorrow with it all having been a dream.

+++000+++000+++

_AN: This excerpt from HBP is the nucleus of the plot bunny that spurred me to write this fic in the first place. Why was Hermione absent from the party when Harry returned, and why did Harry have no more contact with her from then until after the Christmas break? And "what had happened to make Malfoy speak to Snape like this, Snape, towards whom he had always shown respect, even liking?" This story is one attempt to answer those questions. We'll find out more in the next part._


	15. Chapter 15: Christmas Break

_AN: I'm not even going to try to make excuses. Just thanks for still being here, everyone._

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 15**

**Christmas Break**

Hermione didn't know how she'd made it to the train that morning, but here she was, luggage in the overhead rack and book bag on the empty seat next to her, swaying gently to the rhythm of the wheels on the rails. She had no idea where Harry or Ron was; they hadn't made any effort to find her, or if they had, they hadn't been successful, and that was fine with her.

She hadn't slept at all the night before. After Snape and Malfoy had left, she'd waited just long enough to be sure neither of them was still in the corridor, and then had scurried back to Gryffindor tower. Somehow, she'd managed to slink in and get up to her dorm without anyone's attention being drawn to her. This feat had probably been aided by the fact that most of the upper-classmen had been involved in a game of Spin the Bottle, and it hadn't been Butterbeer that they were drinking.

Once safely (or as safe as she ever felt these days, which wasn't very) in her bed, with the curtains arranged exactly as she needed them to be, she had tried to put the previous scene out of her head, but it hadn't left her alone. The two voices kept snapping at each other in her mind, until it seemed that it was she they were accusing: _'… exposed as a weakling … There are things you do not understand … I do not need to justify myself to you … You are sloppy, imprudent … foolish in the extreme … it's all just a joke…'_

And maybe it was. Maybe Snape and Malfoy and the rest of them got together and laughed about it: about how they'd humiliated and violated a bunch of Muggleborns. Mudbloods. That's all they were, all she was: a filthy vessel, contaminated, irredeemable. Good for nothing, better off thrown away.

She knew, intellectually, that she shouldn't think that way; that she was, theoretically, just as good and worthy as anyone else, just as good as Ginny Weasley with her vibrant smile and all the boys chasing after her; just as good as Terry Boot, who didn't ever seem to have to study; just as good as Lavender and Neville and Michael and Padma, and even other Muggleborns like Justin or Dean, for that matter, only they were all so normal and so—so _unspoiled, _and she was dirt. She was dirty; still dirty. It would never come off. Because it was inside.

A knock sounded on her compartment door. She started, and was disoriented for a moment when Terry, the Ravenclaw Prefect, poked his head in. She unconsciously felt to make sure her uniform was buttoned up.

"There you are," he said, a bit impatiently. "We couldn't find you before we left, so we just assigned you: you've got patrol in the last carriage."

Hermione fingered her Prefect badge. "All right," she murmured, still half in a daze.

"I saw Pillcock and his gang going in there, so you might want to get there sooner rather than later." With that warning, he withdrew.

Hermione sighed and got up. Not that she was particularly interested in defusing whatever mischief Paisley Pillcock and his band had gotten up to, but at least it would be a distraction.

She made her way through the rocking carriage, ambivalent to the sounds of laughter and occasional thumps and bangs. She was tired; not just from lack of sleep, but tired of being the one to have to enforce the rules. Let someone else do it. It wasn't her problem. It felt good to let the responsibility go, for once; to let other people's problems remain other people's problems.

It was thus with a slightly less heavy heart that she slid open the door to the last carriage. It was quiet, although clearly not unoccupied: someone's trunk was lying halfway out of one of the compartments, blocking the corridor. Without wasting many words, she Locomoted it back out of the way, sparing its second-year owner barely a glance. A quick check in each of the compartments earned her nothing worse than two dirty looks, although thankfully, none of them were from anyone she knew any better than in passing. Pillcock and his three chums were huddled around some magazine or other and didn't even look up when she opened their door.

The last thing to check, then, was the WC. A quick rattle on the door handle revealed that it was occupied, which was bothersome, because it meant that she would have to wait until whoever was inside came out, so that she could make sure nothing was out of order. She settled herself with her arms against the window sill so that she could watch the passing countryside.

One of the peculiarities of the Hogwarts Express was that it traveled on tracks that were presumed by Muggles to be abandoned, and that never led directly through a city, once outside of London and environs. This enabled the train to travel at a nearly steady pace for the entire length of its journey, and allowed for a bucolic panorama right up to the outskirts of London.

It was a beautiful, late autumn day, and the yellow and brown fields seemed cheerful and honest beneath the brilliant blue sky. Hermione lowered the window a crack to get a breath of the sharp, cold air, smelling of dried leaves and distant wood smoke, which she found quite refreshing. It was thus quite some minutes before she realized that whoever it was, was still locked in to the lavatory. It was also of course possible that someone had locked the door from the outside, to play a prank. The familiar feeling of righteous indignation began to rise in her, both fueling her actions and sapping her strength. She snapped the window shut and straightened her robes.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?" She rapped on the door with her wand, but there was no answer. She rapped again, louder. "This is Prefect Granger! Please open the door!" she insisted, but there was still no response. Muttering to herself in annoyance, she Alohomora'd the door and yanked it open.

Expecting to find the tiny room empty, she was startled to see a girl in school robes hunched down on the floor, her head on her knees. The chamber smelled of sick. Hermione immediately flushed the toilet, flipped the lid down, and opened the window with a flick of her wand.

The girl raised her head, sniffling, and Hermione recognized her right away.

"Sandy? Sandy, what's wrong?" Hermione knelt down beside the Hufflepuff who had shared her Hallowe'en ordeal. "Are you sick?"

Sandy nodded her head miserably.

"What is it? Can you get up?" She put her arm underneath Sandy's elbow and half-lifted, half-guided her to the toilet, where Sandy then sat with her head supported on her hands, panting slightly.

"Here, have some water," Hermione suggested, Conjuring a paper cup and filling it with water from the tap.

Sandy took a small sip before handing the cup back to Hermione with a shaky hand. "Thanks," she croaked.

"You look terrible," Hermione admitted. "Did it just hit you suddenly?"

Sandy shook her head and burst into a fresh round of tears. Hermione patted her gently on the back. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you get something from Madam Pomfrey before we left? Are you sure you should be traveling if you're so sick?"

Sandy took a moment to get herself under control, then she announced, her voice thick with emotion, "I'm not sick, Hermione. I'm pregnant."

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"Is it just me, or did that seem to be a particularly difficult term?" Minerva McGonagall asked as she took her seat in the staff room.

"Absolutely!" Professor Sprout concurred. "There was a great deal of disquiet in the air. Very disturbing. The sixth years were the worst. Of course, we all know that there's no love lost between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, but I had the feeling that there was even tension amongst the Gryffindors themselves. Especially those three. You know." She nodded knowingly at the other Heads. "You don't suppose they're involved in something again?" She looked from McGonagall to Headmaster Dumbledore, her eyebrows raised beneath her floppy witch's hat.

"No doubt they are," droned Snape. "Potter has attracted trouble since the day he set foot in Hogwarts. I for one shall be glad to finally see the back of him."

"I've no doubt the feeling is mutual, Severus," Professor McGonagall said disapprovingly. "However, now that you mention it, I have been noticing that Miss Granger is less… enthusiastic about her coursework than usual. You don't think—" She looked at Professor Dumbledore with something akin to alarm.

Dumbledore cut in serenely: "I am certain it is nothing more than the usual worries over their NEWT coursework. That, and they are of a certain age…" He sighed and turned to Snape. "Or do you have any specific reason to suspect that Mr. Potter is involved in any intrigues at the present time, Severus?"

Snape scowled and crossed his arms. "No, none, Sir."

"I am glad to hear it. After the terrible events of the past months—" Dumbledore was watching Snape with a penetrating stare. "—it is no wonder that those involved may be somewhat more emotional than usual."

"What events do you mean, Headmaster?" asked Professor Sprout, frowning slightly.

"The battle at the Department of Mysteries, of course," he replied easily. "Not only Messrs. Potter and Weasley and Miss Granger, but also the other students who unfortunately were present, went through an ordeal which no one, let alone children, should have had to endure."

"And all the fault of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" exclaimed McGonagall.

Snape glared at Professor McGonagall. "If Potter would not act so rashly, he would be able to avoid half of the trouble he gets up to."

"Are you suggesting that it is his fault that he has been targeted by You-Know-Who?" Professor McGonagall asked indignantly. "That he is somehow to blame for being ambushed at the Ministry?"

"Of course not," Snape snapped. "I would merely ask what he was doing there in the first place. If he followed the advice given to him by the Headmaster and others wiser and more experienced than he, including yourself I might add, it would be that much more difficult for those who wish him harm to get to him."

It looked like McGonagall was about to launch into a lengthier defense, but she was cut short by Dumbledore waving his withered hand.

"That will be all, Minerva, Severus. Surely this is neither the time nor the place to discuss Mr. Potter's past adventures. Unless there is anything that you think has some bearing on our current semester?"

"No, Albus." Minerva pressed her lips together into a thin line.

"In that case, let us move on to business. Pomona, I believe there is an issue which involves one of your seventh years."

Professor Sprout's face took on a look of concern. "I'm very sorry to say that Sandy Ploppe has decided to leave school."

"Oh, no! Not another one?" McGonagall tutted. "I don't understand how these parents can think that they can protect their children better at home. Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain."

"Oh, it's not that," Professor Sprout said. "Her parents are Muggles anyway; they don't really have any idea about…" She sank her voice to a whisper to say: "…He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Then why, after allowing her to study here for nearly seven years, are they pulling her out shortly before she completes her education?" Professor McGonagall seemed quite indignant.

"It's not them pulling her out," Professor Sprout explained. "It's herself. She doesn't want to continue." She held up a hand. "And before you ask, I have done all that I can to convince her to stay. Offered her her own room, any help she might need getting to classes, extra tutoring for any classes she might miss… it was no good. She has her mind made up."

Professor Snape snorted. "Why on earth would any of that make her feel that she's safer here?"

"It has nothing to do with feeling safe, Severus," Professor Sprout told him with a hint of annoyance. "The girl is pregnant."

"Oh, dear." Professor Flitwick clicked his tongue in sympathy. "What a shame. She was doing very well in Charms."

Snape's mouth snapped shut, and he flicked a glance in Dumbledore's direction. "How far along is she?"

"Nearly eight weeks," Professor Sprout said. "She won't tell me who the boy is." She sighed. "I think it was the shock that precipitated such a quick decision. I implored her to take time over the holidays to think about it. But she was adamant. She won't come back."

"Maybe she will yet, Pomona," Dumbledore said. "I think you've given her good advice. It could be that she will change her mind after speaking with her family. Would you follow up with her after Christmas? Let her know we will do everything we can to ensure a normal completion of her year?"

"Of course, Headmaster, thank you."

+++000+++000+++

"Oh, Severus, if I might have a private word…?"

Snape frowned, but stood and waited while the other Heads left for dinner. Once they were gone, Professor Dumbledore closed the door and walked over to the window. It was dark outside, so he couldn't have seen much more than his reflection.

"What do you think, Severus?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Ploppe's departure."

Snape exhaled through his nose. "She is placing herself in a very dangerous position. I hope that is clear to her."

"Mmm. I see what you mean. If the – I hesitate to use the word – father – were to find out…"

"We must ensure that that doesn't happen." Severus thought for a moment. "It would be helpful if there were another boy to take the blame."

Dumbledore turned and frowned at Severus, his blue eyes severe. "We must not allow anyone else to be dragged into this."

"I didn't mean literally," Snape replied, a bit stiffly. "But if there were a rumour…"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It's the same thing. When the truth cannot be told, silence must take its place." He turned back to his reflection in the window and made good on his aphorism.

After several seconds, Snape prompted, "Was that all, then, Headmaster?"

"Miss Granger."

Both let the words hang in the air. Snape certainly wasn't about to pick them up.

Still looking at the window, Dumbledore said slowly, "I have also noticed a marked change in her behaviour … and appearance. I wouldn't exactly call it slovenly, but there is something … careless about her."

"I can't say that I've noticed," Snape said shortly.

"Ignoring it won't make it go away."

Snape spoke through clenched teeth: "This issue is past and done with."

"It may not be. What do you think?" Dumbledore turned once more to Snape and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "What if she is also with child?"

+++000+++000+++

Hermione lay curled on her side, watching the shadows of the trees outside her bedroom window. It was past midnight. Her parents had gone to bed hours earlier; she'd heard them talking for a while, probably about her. She hadn't eaten any dinner. She knew that they were worried about her. She was worried as well.

If she were at Hogwarts, she would have been able to go to the library, find a medical text, do the diagnostic spell herself. Now she would have to wait the entire two weeks of the term break. Unless of course she got her period. Then this whole thing would be resolved. Why hadn't she noticed its absence before? She could be eight weeks gone already. The thought made her sick with worry.

What would she do? What if she really was-- She couldn't even bring herself to think the word. The thought that _he_ had left something inside her… It was more than disgusting. It made her want to turn herself inside out, rub out every body cavity with sandpaper. How Sandy could live with that—She was going to keep it. Hermione was glad that she was leaving.

It had been bad enough seeing Sandy and Oonagh nearly every day, the mutual discomfort palpable, avoiding speaking to them for fear that they might say something about Hallowe'en, feeling that gnawing guilt that she wasn't doing anything for them; she also hadn't visited Lisa for the past two weeks. Lisa was doing better, physically at least; her seizures were under control with medication now. But the medicines made her tired. And she was so sad. Or maybe that was also a side effect. On her last visit, Hermione had only stayed for half an hour. Neither of them had had the energy, or interest, to make small talk.

She also hadn't really had much to say to Theresa; she didn't much see the point of talking to her anymore, to tell the truth. It wouldn't change anything. She knew it wasn't her fault. She knew that what had happened to her was terrible and wrong and had nothing to do with love or even sex, really, and everything to do with power and terrorization. She knew that she had just as much right to be happy as anyone else. But it was different to know something and to feel it.

If Sandy stayed, if Hermione had to watch, even from afar, as the _thing_ grew in her… It would be like watching her own inner filth grow. _Please don't let there be anything like that inside me, she thought_, rigid with fear and wide-open eyes staring out into the night. _Please… please…._

+++000+++000+++

The castle was quiet. Even Peeves, deprived of the adolescent impulses on which he fed, had withdrawn to a remote corner somewhere. Normally, school holidays were the one time when Snape enjoyed being at Hogwarts. He had the run of the place, then, could wander the corridors or walk the grounds without running the risk of any unpleasant surprises in the form of students. They were no different now than they had been when he himself had been a student; little on their minds but juvenile power struggles; always looking out for someone weaker to prey on. Often, that role had fallen to him.

Even now that he was a professor, when he should command respect and adulation, it was the same. Rarely, if ever, openly, of course, but he heard the ugly names, he saw the protruding tongues and nasty grimaces. The difference now was that he was in a position to strike back, make their lives just as unpleasant as they made his. Only he didn't, really; they had lives apart from his classroom, friends for solidarity and comfort. For every unpleasant moment he caused them, they had a Quidditch victory, a Christmas with family, a first kiss under an apple tree. His life outside of the classroom was even worse than in it: pursuit, torture, death. He had no friends. Not that he deserved any, or would even have known what to do with one if one had unexpectedly turned up. Stab them in the back, most likely.

He was going to have to kill the old man. The one person who had treated him with a scrap of decency, even if he had used him, was still using him, to his own ends. But still, it was more than most had done for him, and he was going to have to kill him. Draco couldn't be allowed to do it, even if he did ever come up with a plan that had any sort of chance at success. Draco could still be saved; he, Snape, was lost already. Dumbledore hadn't said that in so many words; he kept going on about love and such nonsense, and how Snape must do it out of love, rather than hate. He didn't hate the Headmaster; but he wasn't even sure what love felt like, so rather than take the chance at not having enough of it, he was going to do the deed the way he had learned from his Master.

Given that, given that his soul was already destined for eternal damnation or whatever it was that happened to ruined, blackened souls, what did it matter what happened to Granger at this point? It was his fault, yes, of course it was, he'd had the choice, but now it was done. Apologies, restitution… those things were about as effective as plasters on a cancer. He'd tried, anyway, because Dumbledore had requested it, and that was the end of it.

But if she were pregnant? That could be undone, of course; it must be. He would make sure of it. Not because he feared any potential claims of a monetary nature (he would be dead himself by the time such demands were made), but because if the child were to be born, what a terrible burden both it and its mother would bear: the spawn of violence, an orphan, offspring either of a Muggleborn and a half-blood (tantamount to a death sentence should the Dark Lord be victorious), or of a traitor.

+++000+++000+++

"Hermione?" A knock on the door roused her from a half-sleep.

"What?" she said after a moment.

Her mother pushed the door open. "Do you want some breakfast?" Her voice was soft and her eyes kind, but Hermione could tell that she was concerned.

"No, I'm not hungry." Hermione rolled onto her side and pulled the cover up under her chin.

"Are you sure you're all right? You didn't want anything last night, either." Her mother sat down on the bed and put her hand against Hermione's forehead. Hermione flinched away.

"I'm not sick," she said irritably. "What I meant was, I don't want anything right now. I'll have something when I get up."

"I'm sorry I can't stay," Mrs Granger said. "Your father's already gone ahead to the surgery. I just have to nip to the store, and then I have to take patients from ten o'clock. I hate leaving you alone when you aren't feeling well."

"I'm fine, Mum! I'd just like a bit of a lie-in, if that's all right? I never get the chance at school."

Hermione's mother smiled gently. "Of course. I'll give you a call around lunchtime, see how you're doing, all right?"

"Mm-hm," Hermione murmured, snuggling deeper into the bed.

Her mother kissed her on the forehead. She smelled like rubbing alcohol and talcum powder, and she didn't close the door on her way out.

Hermione closed her eyes again. Normally, she was an early riser, but she absolutely did not feel like getting up. Getting out of bed would involve things like formulating a plan and mustering the energy to carry it out. If she stayed in bed, she could continue to ignore all the unpleasant things that needed to be dealt with; basically, everything in her life. After another fifteen minutes, however, she realized that if she didn't get up, she would possibly be lying in a pool of her own urine.

Having taken care of that, she wandered, out of force of habit, down to the kitchen. She really wasn't hungry, but her mum had left some fresh croissants on the table and a pot of tea on the stove for her, so she took some. At the first sip of the tea, she made a face; it was only lukewarm. With a sigh, she got up to put it into the microwave, but then realized that she was seventeen. She'd left her wand in her school bag, as she always did when she went home to visit. Now, she ran up the stairs, suddenly invigorated by the prospect of doing something that had hitherto been forbidden.

Back in the kitchen, out of breath, she swirled her lovely oaken wand and pronounced a simple heating charm. Immediately, the tea began to steam, and she sat down again with a satisfied sigh. If only every problem were so easy to fix.

Feeling a little bit spooked at being alone in the house now, she switched on the counter-top television. A block of commercials was running, promising a happy family in return for buying some chemicals in a can. Muggle magic. And they believed it just as firmly as she believed in hers. There followed more advertisements for furniture stores, personal hygiene products, and sugary foods.

Hermione watched them all with an outsider's eye; these were all things that no longer concerned her. Then a nappy ad came on, and it all came crashing down on her. She turned the television off hastily. A baby. And to make things worse, it would be Snape's. Her life would effectively be over. The assault itself was one thing, terrible as it had been, and as large a shadow as it cast over her now, it had only actually happened once. A pregnancy, a baby: the one would last for several months, and the other would last a lifetime. She couldn't keep it. She absolutely could not. If there was one. Following a sudden inspiration, she gulped down the rest of her tea and rushed out.

+++000+++000+++

That evening, she made a good effort at having dinner with her parents, even managing to come up with a couple of innocuous anecdotes about Hogwarts, and that seemed to appease Mr and Mrs Granger's worries.

Afterwards, her mother insisted that they go to the High Street and look at the Christmas displays. Hermione was glad for the distraction; the paper bag and its contents, Transfigured into a paperback book (just to be on the safe side, should her mother happen to find it), lay heavily on her mind. She could have done the test as soon as she'd gotten back from the store, but the instructions said the results would be best first thing in the morning, and Hermione wanted there to be as little margin of error as possible.

It was windy, and a few flurries of dry snow whisked along the ground. Hermione had elected to wear her cloak; she hadn't a Muggle coat that fit anymore. Her parents thought she looked "smashing" and her mother asked Hermione to buy one for her also, as soon as she got back to Hogsmeade. The streets weren't very crowded, and the three of them took their time, wandering from one storefront display window to the next.

Stopped before a diorama of Santa's workshop, Mrs Granger asked, shyly, "Have you ever met him? Father Christmas?"

Hermione laughed. "I hate to break it to you, Mummy, but there isn't any such person. Not unless you mean the seventh-century Greek patriarch, Saint Nicholas, but he's long dead."

"Of course," Mrs Granger mumbled, and Hermione felt bad now, seeing her mother's embarrassment.

"Well, after hearing you tell about goblins and trolls and all," Mr Granger jumped to his wife's defense, "it's hard knowing what's real after all, and what's just fairy tales."

"I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't mean to laugh at you. It's just things have been so serious this semester, and the idea of Father Christmas being real… Well, it would be wonderful, wouldn't it?" She snuggled herself deeper into her cloak and smiled wistfully at the plastic figure with the apple-red cheeks and jolly chortle poised to spill out of his unmoving lips.

Later, as she lay in bed, sleepless again, she realized that tonight had probably been the first time since Hallowe'en that she'd laughed, really felt amused. Maybe she was getting better after all. Or maybe it was just hormones.

What was she going to do if she was pregnant? She couldn't imagine actually having the baby. On the other hand, she also had a deep aversion to the idea of abortion. No matter how the child had been conceived, it hadn't done anything to deserve being killed. But how could she go seven more months, knowing that something of Snape's was inside her? To feel it move, to have it feed off of her… The idea was horrendous. And if she did have it, what would Snape then expect? Would he feel that it was his child? Would he want to have a part in raising it? He would be welcome to it, she thought spitefully … On second thought, she couldn't leave an innocent child to the care of someone like him, someone who cared nothing for others, who was cruel and heartless and devoid of love. Only she couldn't love it, either. She could pity it, but never could she love it.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione was awake early. It was Christmas Eve morning. She must have drifted off at some point, but she didn't feel rested. Her eyes were sticky and she felt slightly dizzy. It was time. Immediately, her stomach churned in nervous anxiety. She'd know in just a few minutes.

She got up and Transfigured the bag back into its original form, then took out the slim cardboard package, shook out the contents on her bed, and read through the instructions again. It was very simple. She could hardly make a mistake. Heart pounding and hands trembling, she carried the plastic stick into the bathroom.

Five minutes later, she had her answer. Negative. Negative! She wasn't pregnant. Or at least, there was a 98 chance that she wasn't pregnant. She'd have Madam Pomfrey do a magical test to be doubly sure, once she was back at Hogwarts, but for now, that was good enough. She started to cry. Tears of relief? She didn't feel so much relieved as just… empty. She turned on the shower so that her parents wouldn't hear her, and she cried with great, heaving gasps. It didn't last long. As suddenly as they had come, the tears were gone, and she sat there, on the toilet lid, breathing in the steam with little hiccupy breaths. Finally, she blew her nose thoroughly and stepped into the shower.

When she was done and dried off, she still felt strangely empty. It was as if something were missing; not that she felt bereft of anything, but it was as if something that she'd gotten used to having around was now gone. She still didn't feel happy or relieved or … well, much of anything. She was just blank. It was an uncomfortable sense of being in a precarious balance; anything at all might tip her in one direction or the other.

She got dressed and went down to breakfast, walking carefully, as if through a fog. Her mother had on a recording of the London Philharmonic playing traditional English carols while she was preparing breakfast. Hermione sat down at the kitchen table and mechanically poured herself a glass of orange juice. Tasting it, she made a face; she'd unconsciously expected pumpkin juice. Still in a netherland between elation and depression, she half-listened to her mother telling her what she had planned for Christmas dinner and didn't even register Mrs Granger going over to open the kitchen window until a breadbox-sized blur of feathers landed ungracefully on the table before her, causing her half-finished juice to slop over the rim.

"I assume that's for you?" Hermione's mother asked, half-amused and reaching for a tea towel to mop up the spill.

Hermione fumbled to unfasten the message from the owl's leg and was looking around for a bit of food to offer it when it unceremoniously took off again, leaving a downy tan feather floating in Hermione's glass.

"I think that was a school owl," Hermione said, by way of explanation, although she didn't know who was left at school who might be sending her a message.

"Oh?" Mrs Granger said, obviously trying not to look too interested.

Hermione unrolled the scrap of parchment, and her heart dropped immediately. She'd recognize that tight, sharp hand anywhere, even if the ink was black this time instead of the usual red she found on her Defense essays.

"It's—Just something for school. An assignment," she said, her voice suddenly scratchy. She thrust the parchment into the back pocket of her jeans, unread.

"They certainly do keep you busy, don't they," Mrs Granger said cheerfully.

Hermione grunted something noncommittal in reply.

+++000+++000+++

After breakfast, while Mr Granger went out to take care of his "last-minute" Christmas shopping (the only kind he did), Mrs Granger roped Hermione into helping her with the preparations for the next day's dinner. She wanted to pre-cook as much as possible so that the oven would be available for the turkey the next day. Hermione was assigned to peel apples for the tart, and had just begun to tell her mother how quickly Ginny had been able to peel an entire basketful of apples at the Burrow when she realized that she could do the same thing and dashed upstairs to get her wand.

She grabbed the wand from among her school things and was about to go back downstairs when she remembered the note, still in her pocket. She pulled it out and debated for a moment, then unfolded it and read what it said:

_Miss Granger –_

_It has come to my attention that you may be faced with a problem that might cause you some discomfort some months hence. If that is the case, you must rectify the situation immediately, by any means currently at your disposal. Any expenses will be covered. Reply upon completion._

_Prof. S. Snape_

Hermione gaped at the note, incensed. He wasn't… He was! Although couched in careful terms in case the message had been intercepted, it was clear to her what he was saying. He was telling her to get an abortion "by any means currently at her disposal". Was she supposed to grab the nearest coat hanger?

And how did he know that she had bought a pregnancy test in the first place? Was he having her followed? Or, worse, was he himself following her? She glanced at her bedroom window; the curtains were partially parted. Quickly, she flicked her wand in their direction, and they snapped shut. She then sent a beam of yellow light at the parchment, and it disintegrated in a puff of smoke. Reply upon completion indeed. It'd be a cold day in Hell before she replied to any message from him.

Trying not to let her hands tremble too much, Hermione returned to the kitchen, where she slowly began to warm to her mother's Christmas preparations. She even found herself laughing again as they tried to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas and got hopelessly lost after the ninth day. Mr Granger came blowing in shortly after four, his ears and nose red from the cold (and perhaps from a pint or two) and his pockets bulging with mysteriously shaped packages.

That evening, watching the Christmas specials on the telly with her parents, Hogwarts and all that it entailed was all but forgotten, and Hermione was transported back to her childhood, before she'd known that there was more to her than just being very clever, back to a time of hot chocolate and bedtime stories, and she felt very, very good.

At the end of the evening, all three Grangers hung their stockings up over the electric fire, and Hermione went to bed in the certain knowledge that, in the morning, they would all be full.

+++000+++000+++

Snape shuddered as the Knight Bus disappeared with a bang. Distance and unfamiliarity with the neighborhood had made Apparation impractical, there were no Floo connections nearby, and Severus Snape did not do broomsticks. He walked quickly past the brick-walled gardens; he wished to reach his destination without being spotted, if possible. It was early yet, the weak December sun not yet high enough in the sky to cast shadows.

Why had the girl not responded yet, even if only to tell him that there was no substance to his suspicions? It had been three days since he had sent the owl. The lack of an answer only served to confirm to him that she was in the same situation as that stupid Hufflepuff girl, and that she was dawdling with a decision. It was even possible that she had decided to carry it to term. Damn that Gryffindor morality! This was no time to be sentimental. It had to be terminated, and the sooner, the better.

He turned in at a gabled home screened by sturdy box shrubs and rang the doorbell firmly. The house projected a sickening sense of wholesomeness. After several seconds with no response, Snape reached up and rapped sharply on the door, just beneath the neat pine-branch wreath with a cheerful red bow that was tacked there. He glanced around quickly to ascertain that no neighbors were watching, then extended his wand toward the building and spoke: "Revelio hominum." Three pale beams of light unfurled from the wand, all pointing toward the upper story, but one of them seemed to be moving, descending toward his level. He quickly stowed his wand in his sleeve, expecting the door to be opened momentarily.

After a moment, though, when nothing further happened, he frowned and depressed the bell again. He knew they were in there; most likely Hermione had recognized him through the peep-hole and decided to pretend they weren't home. She wasn't going to get rid of him that easily!

"Open the door this instant, Miss Granger!" he demanded. "Or I shall be forced to open it myself!" Instantly realizing that she had no way of knowing that he was not there with sinister intentions, he amended, impatiently: "I simply wish to speak to you. I can do so through the door, if you would like this to become the business of the entire neighborhood."

Another moment passed in silence, and then he heard, muffled through the door: "Put your wand through the mail slot."

"My wand--? I'll do no such thing!" he exclaimed.

"If you want me to open the door, you will," she responded decisively. "Put it through, if what you have to discuss is so urgent. Otherwise, it will have to wait until I'm back at Hogwarts."

"Oh, for the love of—" he muttered, and grudgingly slipped his wand through the brass slot.

The door opened a crack, and an eye and the tip of a wand, not his, appeared. "What do you want?"

"Did you receive the message I sent?"he asked impatiently.

"Who is it?" he heard a man's voice whisper from somewhere behind her.

Her eye turned away. "One of my professors," she hissed back.

"And you're keeping him standing out in the cold?" the man said, a little louder.

"Yes, Dad, it's not—" Hermione tried to protest, but the door opened wider now, and a middle-aged man was standing there in grey trousers and a blue cardigan.

"I'm terribly sorry, but Hermione has warned us about being careful with —Well, she's said there are some unfriendly types out and about these days, making mischief. But obviously that doesn't mean you." The man smiled and held out his hand. "Herbert Granger. Hermione's father. Won't you come in?"

Snape accepted Mr Granger's offer and introduced himself perfunctorily, noting as he did so that Hermione, wearing a pink dressing gown and obviously just having woken up, shrunk away from him and refused to meet his eye.

"Come in, let me just get my wife. It's so rarely that we get to meet someone from Hermione's school. She's just upstairs, excuse me. Hermione," he said, turning to his daughter, "show Professor Snape into the living room and offer him some tea." He turned and jogged up the stairs, leaving Hermione and Snape alone in the hall. She was clutching her dressing gown close to her, her wand still pointed at him.

"Did you get my message?" Snape hissed, as soon as her father was out of earshot.

"My parents don't know anything," Hermione hissed back angrily. "Don't you dare say anything."

"You're in no position to be making demands of me," he responded, equally hotly. "I assume from your response that you did. Why in blazes haven't you done anything about it?"

"I don't think it's really any of your business, what I do or don't do—"

At that moment, Mr and Mrs Granger appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Here we are. Hermione, don't keep the professor standing in the hall," Mrs Granger scolded gently as she came down. "Hello, I'm Jane Granger," she said, smiling at Snape.

"Professor Snape," he said flatly, taking her hand.

"Please, do come in," she said, ushering him into the adjoining room. "Hermione, bring us some tea and—" She turned to her daughter and whispered, "… whatever it is that they eat for breakfast." She exchanged a helpless look with her husband.

"Tea will not be necessary," Snape said curtly. "I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with your daughter, and then I will be on my way."

"Well, that's fine, then. Please, sit down," Mrs Granger invited.

"I don't believe any of Hermione's professors have ever visited before … Well, aside from that first time… We like to call it 'the First Contact'," Mr Granger confided to Snape, once they had all taken a seat.

Snape acknowledged the joke with a thin smile.

"This isn't anything like that, is it?" Mrs Granger asked with slight anxiety. "She hasn't developed new… powers, or something like that? Nothing dangerous?" She put her arm around Hermione's shoulder protectively.

"No. Nothing like that," Snape said, but did not elaborate.

"It's about the assignment he sent me," Hermione said suddenly. "You remember, Mummy, the owl? Isn't that right, Professor?" she prompted, giving him a hard look.

"Precisely," he agreed. "An extra-credit assignment. I wanted to make sure she had completed it."

"I haven't," Hermione said stiffly.

Snape's expression became dark, and Mrs Granger laughed nervously.

"Hermione…Your professor has come all this way…."

"An assignment's an assignment," Mr Granger admonished. "And it's not like you to turn down extra credit."

"What I mean is, there was no need to do it," Hermione said, glowering at Snape as she spoke. "The assignment was contingent upon certain conditions being met, and they weren't, so it would be senseless for me to do it."

Hermione's parents looked questioningly at Snape.

"I see," he said, and seemed to be on the verge of standing up when Hermione added, venomously, "But I wouldn't have done it even if the conditions had been right."

Mrs Granger gasped.

"Then be glad, for your sake, that they weren't," Snape shot back.

"Hermione, that was uncalled for," Mr Granger said sternly. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor, I don't know what's gotten into her. She's not usually like this."

"Yes…" Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "I'm certain that she is a most respectful child when she wishes to be," he said, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that what he meant was quite the opposite.

Mrs Granger drew herself up straighter and responded, noticeably more coolly, "Yes, she is. At least, that is how she was raised. I'm not entirely certain what this is all about, but if it is necessary that Hermione complete an assignment, I can assure you that it will be done."

"It appears that it will not be necessary, if what she says is true," Snape said peevishly.

"Of course it's true!" Hermione hissed. "Do you think I'd lie about it?"

"Hermione, that's enough!" her mother said sharply.

"I think perhaps you would," Snape said, ignoring Mrs Granger, and as he continued speaking, Hermione's consciousness of her parents' presence faded as well, until it seemed as if it were only she and he in the room, and his every word both fascinated and repulsed her. "If you thought that by doing so, you would be protecting someone, or something, an individual or a cause. But I assure you, a lie here would protect no one; in fact, it would put yourself and whomever, or whatever, you are trying to protect, in grave danger. Miss Granger…" By now, he was on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide and his hands poised on the arms of the chair as if to propel him into action.

"There are plans afoot which you would shudder to hear even a whisper of, things that you would not in your most abhorrent nightmares even dream of. What do you hold most dear? Your friends? Your family? Imagine, just imagine, if the only way to protect your loved ones, those most precious to you, were to end their lives, so that they would not have to suffer worse, perhaps even at your own hand. The time is past for acts of bravery or of nobility. Those will save no one. What remains is duty; you must do what is required, no matter how unpleasant it may appear; you must be willing to destroy what you value most highly in order to save it."

Snape had a wild, nearly deranged look about him as he finished, but then, abruptly, he let his upper body fall back into the chair, and he seemed to deflate, now looking much older than his thirty-seven years.

"I apologize for having intruded," he said, sounding now subdued. "It was… thoughtless of me."

Mr and Mrs Granger stirred, also having been horrified, if somewhat confused, by what the professor had said.

"No, no, not at all," Mr Granger said automatically. "We— We're glad you're taking such an interest in Hermione's school work."

"Yes, her school work," Snape echoed, now returning to his usual haughty and cold state. "She would do well not to neglect it. She has been quite preoccupied with childish games." He stood, a black shadow towering over the three people huddled together on the Chesterfield.

"I'm sure she'll take your advice to heart," Mrs Granger said, also rising.

Snape snorted his skepticism before taking his leave. At the door, he paused. "Miss Granger!" he snapped, causing Hermione to jump in momentary fright. "My wand!"

She Summoned it from where she had secreted it, steering it directly at him, so that she didn't have to actually touch it.

They heard the retort of Apparation before the door had even fallen into the latch.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione didn't quite know what to make of the visit, so, for a day or two, she didn't. She went for long walks through the city parks; sat for hours in cafes, people-watching; and when a storm blew up, she curled up in the living room under an afghan with a book from her mother's bookshelf, something she would never have chosen herself.

And then, as the light grew dim, and she reached up to turn on the lamp, her eye fell on the wing chair standing alone next to the piano, and it seemed as if the shadow of Severus Snape were hovering there, neither sitting nor standing, but in an undefined no-man's land somewhere in between. And then she clicked on the lamp, and the impression was gone.

But the thought remained: Where was Severus Snape? Was he on Voldemort's side, or Dumbledore's? Was he his own man, or a puppet? And what had he been trying to tell her the other day? For she was certain that he had been trying to communicate something to her, other than urging her to obtain an abortion of her non-existent pregnancy. He had talked of killing people that she loved, in order to save them… from what? She certainly wasn't about to kill her parents in order to keep them safe from Death Eaters. There were many other means to do that. She didn't think he had been issuing a veiled threat, either. It was all more than a bit confusing. Maybe he was losing touch with reality. He had seemed somewhat more agitated than she would have expected him to be over the issue of an eventual pregnancy, especially since he had put her off so coldly many times previously when she'd tried to talk to him.

She recalled again the conversation she had overheard on her last night at Hogwarts, after Slughorn's party. It had sounded very much as if Draco had been seriously questioning Snape's loyalty to the Death Eaters. That didn't have to mean anything, of course; it was in the nature of such organizations for every member to be suspect, no one trusting another. There had been something else, though, Snape repeatedly offering to help Draco, even having taken the Unbreakable Vow to help him.

Who would have made him take it? Obviously not Draco. Lord Voldemort, then? If that were true, then it would mean that Voldemort valued Draco more highly than he did Snape, and that had to be a ridiculous notion. No, it must have been someone else. Most likely Lucius Malfoy, trying to protect his son. Lucius must have something on Snape, some leverage, that had obligated Snape to take the potentially lethal magical vow.

Which meant, again, that Snape was not acting freely, that he was under magical obligation or duress, that his actions were being steered by others. In fact, it was entirely possible that what he had done on Hallowe'en had been, somehow, in order to protect or help Draco. Maybe it had been part of the Unbreakable Vow, and if he had refused, he would have died according to the terms of the Vow. True, he had insisted that no one could ever make him do anything, that he alone was responsible for everything he did, but that was just a matter of semantics. Ultimately, he was in control of his actions, that is, not under the Imperius, but if he was subject to the Unbreakable Vow, he was in effect without free will. Do or die.

Could it be that he had been talking of himself, when he had made the statement about killing that which she held dearest in order to save it? It was rather metaphysical, but it was possible that he had been speaking of himself: that in order to save himself from performing ever more gruesome tasks, he would have to kill himself… or be killed. She got a chill at the thought. And did Dumbledore know about it? Is that what he had meant when he had said there are things which one must sometimes do, that one would rather die than carry out? Well, obviously, in this case anyway, Snape had decided rather to do it than die.

But he had also, in that strange conversation in the library, spoken of being "punished" for disobedience, and she had been outraged at his presumption, at the idea that he should be excused for what he had done because he had been under threat at the time.

Now, she no longer found it outrageous as much as she found it tragic. It was becoming more and more clear to her that Professor Snape was running scared; trying to keep his head above water for as long as he could, maybe in order to save his own skin, but, and this possibility was becoming more and more the stronger contender, maybe in order to do something for someone, most likely Dumbledore, before he died, because if he were truly in Voldemort's pocket, why would Malfoy have needed to extract the Vow from him to make sure that he helped Draco with a task for the Death Eaters? And Dumbledore had asked Hermione not to expose Snape for the same reason: So that Snape could carry out whatever it was that Dumbledore needed him to do. As the tumblers of a lock, the thoughts aligned and fell into place in Hermione's mind. Snape needed to do something for Dumbledore. He was also under magical obligation to help Draco or die. And she, Hermione, had been caught in the cross-fire.

She felt the same way she had when she'd found the page on the Basilisk back in second year. Elation at having found the solution. And dread for what it meant.

+++000+++000+++

_AN: Yeah, I know Hermione isn't totally right with her deductions, but close enough._


	16. Chapter 16: Last of the Holidays

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 16**

**The Last of the Holidays**

He felt like he was being forced to drag his nails across a blackboard and listen to the sound, magnified a thousand times. His entire body was tense, and a gnawing panic lurked at the edge of his mind, even as he forced himself to outward calm.

He was sitting in the front room at Spinner's End; the lights were on, electric ones, making the tattered furniture appear even more sickly in their dim yellow glow. He was pretending to read a book; pretending to be normal. He couldn't hear Pettigrew, but he knew he was there, hovering at the door or holed up in his room. It wasn't that the traitor (for that's what he was, even if he had helped 'their' side) ever gave Severus the feeling of being watched; in fact, Severus was grateful, in a twisted way, that he was there: Pettigrew's presence was the only thing, of this Severus was certain, that prevented him from simply letting himself sink down underneath the black waves that were pounding at his sanity.

He wanted to let go of the guilt and sense of duty; he truly did. He wished he could be more like Pettigrew, who seemingly had felt nothing more upon betraying his best friends to death and Azkaban than an immense sense of relief.

It wasn't that he cared about the girl. No; her fate touched him not in the least. It was that he had failed, again. It was that he had been manipulated, again. The Dark Lord had him right where he wanted him, had set up the entire thing in order to clinch his hold on Snape, ensure that he knew he was a lost cause, beyond redemption. And so Snape would be able to kill Dumbledore, because he had nothing left to lose. He was already the devil's plaything; one murder more wouldn't make any odds.

The ironic thing was, that he was playing into both of their hands; he was in the unique position to serve both diametrically opposed masters, and he was the only one who could do it. Another man might have been proud, might have become cocky and tried to use the situation to his personal advantage. But for Snape, there was no advantage to be had. The only thing he wanted was to be free of the burdens that he bore on his conscience. And the only way to do that was to be rid of his soul.

+++000+++000+++

The rest of the holiday passed uneventfully for Hermione, and she began to feel her old self again, physically at least. She made the effort to wash her hair daily and put on the new clothes her mother had bought her for Christmas. Her witch's robes lay forgotten in a crumple at the bottom of her school bag, and she didn't open a single school book. With the worry of pregnancy behind her, she was almost able to forget that she was different now. More different than she had been, anyway. She had always been different: first she had been precocious; then magical; and now she was also the victim of a violent crime. That wasn't the way Theresa would have wanted her to say it. But it was true. She was still a victim, even now, weeks later. Everything was different. Everything was filtered through that one night.

Both of her parents took a separate day off, so that they could each spend time alone with their daughter. With her father, she visited the medical museum, a favorite of her childhood, he dropping not-too-subtle hints about her studying medicine out of Hogwarts ('You'll be taking your exams next year, won't you? Magical or not, everyone needs a doctor, right?'). Ever since it had become clear that she was extremely intelligent, her parents had gently joked about her becoming a doctor, and she'd gone along with it, not really having any idea what doctors did, aside from tracking one's growth, peering into one's ears, giving injections and, where warranted, prescribing foul-tasting medicines. It had all seemed fairly innocuous. And, to be sure, she had discussed the possibility of becoming a Healer with Professor McGonagall during her careers talk at the beginning of fifth year, along with several other options.

But now that she had actually smelt blood, had her own abdomen sliced open by Dolohov just a few months ago, seen Lisa's bruises and Oonagh's scars … She didn't think she'd be able to do what Madam Pomfrey had done when she had tended to her after the attack. The matron had been so calm as she questioned her on her injuries; her hands had been so steady as she had probed for unseen wounds. And then there was the issue of bodies. As a practicing doctor, she would have to touch other people's bodies, their skin, their intimate places. She would have to get close to them, look into their mouths, smell their breath. And they would be close to her, close enough to touch her, grab her— And now they had arrived at the case with the aborted fetuses preserved in formaldehyde. Something like that was inside Sandy now, all shriveled and yellowish-grey, only its heart was beating, and it was sucking her blood in, taking what it needed from her body. She walked quickly away and asked her father if they mightn't leave, but the image remained with her.

With her mother, Hermione went to see "The Perfume", the movie with Dustin Hoffman, which had just come out. She found the Richis character particularly disturbing, so much so that she had to avert her eyes whenever he came onscreen, but for some reason, that almost made it worse, because it was his voice, that smooth, rumbling stream, delivering the lines, the incredible, duplicitous lines, begging the murderer of his daughter to become his son, that made her shiver.

On Silvester, she crawled into bed early and cast a Muffling Charm over herself to block out the sounds of the firecrackers, one Apparition after another right outside her house. The echoes of the fireworks on her bedroom walls flashed Stunner red and Avada Kedavra green. In the morning, she slept late.

+++000+++000+++

"How are Mr. Malfoy's plans coming along?" Dumbledore asked the question casually, while watching as Snape applied a lotion to his deadened hand.

"Tortuously slowly, if I am any judge of character," Snape droned, then straightened up to survey his handiwork.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Good. It looks like his aversion to hard work is going to play in our favour."

Snape stiffened visibly and withdrew to return the pot of lotion to his cabinet. "I did not say that he was not working at it; in fact, I believe he does little else, judging from the amount of time which he spends absent from the Slytherin dungeons, even late into the night. I have made sure that his helpers are available as little as possible, which should slow things down even further. He wants to keep his hands clean, and that means something elaborate, perhaps involving equipment, machinery even. I doubt that he will attempt to purchase another such powerfully Cursed item as the opal necklace; he must suspect now that such transactions will be monitored. And if he is hoping to do the enchantments himself, the magic necessary would be more advanced than anything he has learned. He will have to do extensive experimentation. The evidence from that incident also points to another possibility, that of having someone else do the actual deed at his behest--"

"I concur entirely, Severus," Dumbledore said in a way that indicated he was not interested in hearing further ramblings. "The boy is no killer. He simply doesn't have it in him."

"No," Snape agreed, and added, more softly, "Although he may yet be made into one."

"You must not allow it," Dumbledore said plainly. "Enough lives have been lost, enough irreparable damage done."

Snape frowned, reiterating with fervour, "I have sworn to do my best to protect him. On my honour to you, and on pain of death to Narcissa."

"It is more than his physical wellbeing we are discussing here, you know that, Severus. You must not allow him to be corrupted," the headmaster said sharply.

"You are asking something that is beyond my power and influence," Snape growled, his voice becoming tight. "I may be able to prevent him committing murder, but corruption of the type you mean comes from within. If his heart turns black, it will not be because of anything I do or do not do. The terms of my Vow cover only his physical health, until his Geas has been completed or lifted."

"The terms of your Vow to his mother, perhaps. But as you said, you swore to me on your honour that you would see to it that Draco does not become a murderer. A murder must be committed in the heart before it can be carried out. Draco has not yet committed to it; that is why he is directing all of his energy into the planning of it, why he is relying on machinations and complex chains of events. It is clear that the act is still an abstract to him, something that is foreign to him and that he wishes to remain far removed from. But it will not necessarily remain so.

"Hallowe'en was, I believe, a second turning point for him, following Tom's branding him with his Mark. He committed horrible, unspeakable acts of violence on another human being… Was there truly no way that could have been spared him?" Dumbledore's voice took on a pleading tone.

"None," Snape answered curtly. "Other than deserting the ranks, equivalent to a death sentence."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed in concern. "It has already begun to deaden him. He has become callous, unfeeling." He paused briefly, then asked, rather abruptly, "Have you spoken to him about the restitution fund for Miss Ploppe?"

Snape felt a wave of anger rise in him, but quickly quashed it. This was another one of Dumbledore's hare-brained ideas: Draco was to secretly fund a bank account for the benefit of Sandy Ploppe, the unfortunate girl he had impregnated on Hallowe'en. It was impossible, of course. It would be tantamount to admitting wrongdoing and recognizing the child as his. If it were ever to come out, _ever_, he would be disowned by his family and severely disciplined by the Dark Lord. But Dumbledore didn't see that; he had said that it was important for Draco to make restitution, in some way, both for the girl's sake, but also for his own. An evil deed left unrepented would burn a hole in his soul, or some such rot. And the old manipulative goat had left it up to him, Snape, to convince Draco of this. For of course it was also impossible for Dumbledore to let on that he knew of Draco's involvement, because that would expose Snape's duplicity.

"No, I have not," Snape hissed, "and I shan't be doing so. He has made his bed. He will have to lie in it, as do we all. As I said, I can protect him, physically, to a certain degree, but I cannot be made responsible for the blackening of his heart. You are asking too much this time, Headmaster!"

"I must ask it, Severus! It is not just he who I am trying to save, but you as well."

"Don't do me any more favours, I beg you," Snape said bitterly.

Dumbledore's face fell. "Severus. Don't. You know that if I saw any way to avoid it… You must give yourself the chance. Help Draco. See to it that he doesn't—"

"That he doesn't follow in my footsteps?" Snape blurted out. "Since he has been placed under my care, he has become expert at casting two of the three Unforgivables, tortured and violated an innocent girl, and spends the greater part of his life plotting your death! I'd say I'm doing a bang-up job!" His eyes flashed darkly.

"That is Tom's doing, not yours," Dumbledore said quietly.

"It's me who failed to protect him from it! Just as it was me who didn't put two and two together and prevent Potter from finishing that damned maze, or force him to close his mind to the Dark Lord's influence."

Dumbledore reached out his good hand and laid it on Snape's sleeve. "Severus. You mustn't do this to yourself. What you wanted to do for Harry, what you have done, is commendable. As are your reasons for doing it. I think you have more than made up for that error in judgment in your youth. But you must focus now on what is coming. I fear that you are trying to spread yourself too thin. Harry has his friends. What is most important, vitally important, is you … and Draco. He still has a strong emotional bond with his mother. Use that. He is not Tom's yet."

"A paltry sum in an anonymous bank account will not prevent him from falling further under the Dark Lord's influence," Snape said with a sneer.

"It will. It will mean that he recognizes that he did wrong; and that it is in his power to try to make things a little bit right again. These are things which Tom Riddle does not want his followers to see. He wants them to believe that evil is all-encompassing; that there is no other choice."

"Isn't it? What you would have me do isn't exactly a virtuous act."

"To kill me, you mean? It worries me that you cannot even say it. That means to me that you think it is something dirty. But you will do it out of love for me, Severus. Won't you? You must believe that it is an act of mercy. Because it is. You have seen what the curse is doing to me." He held up his left arm. "You know what will happen eventually, even with your best ministrations. Don't you want to spare me that fate?"

"I do, you know that. But to… kill you…"

"Think of it as putting an end to my suffering," Dumbledore said lightly. "I want you to promise me, Severus, that at the moment when you speak the curse, when the words pass your lips, that you will feel nothing but love and compassion in your heart. Do you promise me? Severus?"

Snape looked away. "I promise."

+++000+++000+++

_Author's Note: Better short than delayed. Next chapter coming soon. Promise!_


	17. Chapter 17: Return to Hogwarts

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_Author's Note: Some dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from HBP: A Sluggish Memory._

**Chapter 17**

All too soon, the day came for Hermione to return to Hogwarts. She was ambivalent about going back. Points against: Snape was still there, as was Oonagh, both constant reminders of Hallowe'en, although she felt reasonably certain now that Snape wasn't going to be any threat. He had seemed slightly unhinged at his last visit, it was true, but it was an inward-directed madness, and he had actually never sought to molest her in the weeks since Hallowe'en. Quite the contrary: He had gone out of his way more than once to leave her alone. Still, she wasn't exactly looking forward to sitting through his classes. Ron, also, was probably still going to be a prat. And to top it all off, she didn't have any friends, other than Harry, who was probably still going to be wrapped up in his own pursuits. All in all, not particularly tempting.

On the other hand, there were the following points in favor: She wouldn't have to explain to her parents (or Dumbledore, or anyone else) why she wasn't returning. And she didn't have any other plans. Completing her education in the wizarding world would be easier at this point than starting from scratch in the Muggle world. In the end, it was mostly laziness, with a dash of defiance, that made the decision for her. At seven o'clock that morning, she boarded a commuter train to London, expecting to connect to the Hogwarts Express at eleven.

When she arrived at King's Cross, however, she found that she just couldn't do it. She absolutely could not face a train full of raucous students, the jostling on the platform, the Dungbombs in the corridors, the cold shoulders and nasty looks she would reap as a prefect doing her duties. And she hadn't any hope of hiding out for the entire journey; someone would track her down, as they had last time.

She wasn't really sure what she wanted to do, but she knew that boarding the Hogwarts Express was not on the list. And so, for the first time in six years, she marched out of London's King's Cross station on the first day of term.

Stepping out of the glass concourse that had been so rudely stuck onto the front of the Victorian-era building, she kept looking around nervously, certain that any second, a prefect or one of the Head students would tap her on the shoulder and call her back, but nothing happened. Shouldering her bag more firmly, she walked purposefully away, no goal in mind. Within a couple of minutes, however, she saw the new British Library, and with a sense of relief, passed through the scanners and checked her bag into a locker. Here were her friends; here, she knew what to expect, and nothing was expected of her, aside from a modicum of respect for the books and attentiveness toward their content.

However, losing herself in the words did not come easily, and she flitted from one section to another, trying to quell the flutter of agitation in her stomach at the knowledge that she was playing hooky.

When she could stand it no longer, she looked at her watch and realized with an odd mixture of triumph and panic that it was a quarter past eleven. She had missed the Hogwarts Express. She didn't mean to run away completely; if she didn't turn up by tonight, at the latest, the school would contact her parents, and she didn't want them to worry. There was really no doubt that she had to go back to Hogwarts, but she was now on her own. Well, after all, she was seventeen. An adult. Adults got into situations and solved them on their own.

Despite that realization, she felt as she had back in second year, confronted with the Devil's Snare: It seemed as if she ought to know what to do, but at the moment, it was escaping her. Ron's words came back to her: _Are you a witch, or what?_ delivered in that tone of contempt he assumed when other people didn't solve things right away (not that he had any solutions at hand), modified by the endearing squeak that had crept into his voice that year. A twinge of longing for the way things used to be threatened to bring tears to her eyes, but she forced it away viciously. They could never go back, never insult each other and expect the hurt to dry up with a look, a giggle, a smile. It had all become deadly serious. Everything was weighed now, every action had a value, and it counted.

Right. Back to the matter at hand. No broomstick, no flying car, no thestral. How did normal mortals (gifted with magical powers) travel from London to Hogsmeade? It must be done all the time. There was, of course, Apparation, but she had never done it (although she felt confident that she could), wasn't licensed yet, and at any rate, Hogsmeade was too far to reach safely in one go. She would have had to do it in several steps, and she didn't know enough out-of-the-way places to avoid popping up in the middle of a tourist attraction.

Then there was Flooing. The only place she knew of to Floo from was Diagon Alley, which was a good hour away by Tube. And it would cost money to buy the Floo powder, although she would have enough, if it came to that.

The Knight Bus was no good, even if it cost less than Floo powder; it only ran between dusk and dawn, and she didn't want to wait all day and then show up late at night. Although it was a magical bus, it still had to travel on the roads, and it was several hours from London to Hogwarts. She remembered only too well the scenes that Harry and Ron had made with their late arrivals in past years, including Harry's bloody entrance at the start of the previous term. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was to draw additional attention to herself, which was precisely why she hadn't taken the Express to begin with.

It looked like it would have to be the Floo network after all. She knew that there were fireplaces in Hogwarts that allowed external Flooing (Harry had used the one in Umbridge's office the previous year to communicate with Sirius), but she didn't know what address to call out to reach them, nor if, in light of Voldemort's resurfacing, security measures had been strengthened and those Floos shut down completely. It seemed likely. She would have to Floo into Hogsmeade, then, either the Three Broomsticks or the Hog's Head, and subsequently walk to Hogwarts. For some reason, the latter pub appealed to her more. The sullen old barkeeper there seemed the type who was less likely to be fussed by random students stumbling out of his grate than Madam Rosmerta would be, and less likely to ask for an explanation.

And so, with the knowledge that at that moment, Ron and Harry (who had spent the holidays at the Burrow; she, of course, had not been invited) were also on their way back to Hogwarts, together, along with Ginny, and possibly Luna, Neville, and everyone else whom she used, at one time, to consider her friends, she walked out of the library and let herself be carried with the crowd to the next Tube station. It had started to snow.

+++000+++000+++

As Hermione landed, her foot slipped in something slick. She grabbed at the soot-encrusted hearth to avoid falling ungracefully onto the floor, which was littered with rubbish. She had barely regained her balance when something low and gray ran at her knees. She lurched backward, unluckily this time, and ended up sitting in the ashes, her legs splayed and her hair falling across her face.

An unsavory figure seated at the next table gave her a dark look before returning to its drink.

She scrabbled to get up, brushing the worst of the debris off of her jeans, and picked what looked like a broken chicken bone off of her bag. It left a dark and greasy spot.

The gray something bleated loudly and trotted off behind the bar, apparently well pleased with itself.

Hermione straightened up with as much dignity as she could, and headed directly for the exit. Just as she reached the door, however, a familiar voice sounded behind her: "Please, Miss Granger, allow me."

She whipped around, only to find herself face to face with the Hogwarts Headmaster. He smiled at her kindly and reached over to hold the door open for her.

"Professor Dumbledore!" she exclaimed, overcome by surprise. "I—Shouldn't you be up at the castle?" she blurted out without thinking, and then added, belatedly, "…sir?"

"I might well ask you the same thing," he replied cordially. "Perhaps I might accompany you, if we are heading in the same direction?" He gestured for her to take the lead.

"Yes, of course…" she said, still flustered, but following his invitation. "I mean, yes, sir, I'm going up to the school now. I missed the Hogwarts Express, you see," she explained as they began to walk up the road.

"Ah, yes." He nodded knowingly. "Am I correct in assuming that you are on your own? I do not see any companions." He placed just enough emphasis on the word 'see' to suggest that there might be some unseen companions, perhaps hidden underneath a certain Invisibility Cloak.

Hermione shook her head, frowning. Why did everyone seem to assume that everything she was involved in, involved Harry as well? "No, there's no one. I came alone," she said quite firmly. "And in fact, sir, I haven't seen nor heard from Harry since term ended." She was becoming quite cross now at the examination, and was certain that Dumbledore suspected a Harry/Ron adventure at the bottom of her unorthodox appearance.

"I do hope there hasn't been a falling-out?" he inquired.

"Between me and Harry? No," she answered shortly, adding silently: _Although I can't say the same for me and Ron._

"That's very good to hear. I believe that he will be needing his friends more than ever, and you certainly count amongst his closest ones. In fact, I wonder if you wouldn't mind delivering this note to him, when you next see him? I daresay you'll want to be catching up as soon as the train gets in." He produced a neatly tied scroll, which he held out to her.

Hermione sighed. Once again, Harry was utmost in everyone's mind. But of course, the threat against him from Lord Voldemort was ever-present. She'd only been the random target of one attack, and for Dumbledore, that was all over and done with. "I'll see that he gets it, sir," she said curtly and tucked the message into her cloak.

Professor Dumbledore, for his part, did not question her further, and they walked together in silence for several minutes. The sky was grey, and the path hard-packed with dirty ice. They had left the town behind them now.

"I… almost didn't come back," Hermione ventured finally. She meant it to be an accusation, but it came out sounding pitiful and pleading.

"But you have."

"I didn't know what else to do. I mean, I had to come back, didn't I?" she said indignantly, and this time, she hit the tone right. "I don't really have a choice. If I drop out of Hogwarts, I haven't anything to show for myself. No job, no prospects."

"You are a resourceful young woman, Miss Granger. I have no doubt that you would land on your feet, whatever your situation. Do not misunderstand; I am pleased that you have returned. The school is richer for your presence. I believe there would be more questions, were you as well as Miss Ploppe not to finish out the year."

"You know about Sandy?"

"I am the Headmaster. It behooves me to know when students leave the roll of the school."

"I didn't mean that… I meant, you know why she left?"

"I am aware of the circumstances she found herself in."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, feeling as if she had just been punched in the gut. 'Found herself in'? As if she'd just awoken one morning and discovered the inconvenient fact that a Death Eater's spawn had lodged itself in her abdomen? She was so furious at that, at his detachment, at his insistence that they all carry on as if the entire world weren't falling apart around them, that she could not speak.

"Is there something wrong, Miss Granger?" Professor Dumbledore had stopped as well and was looking at her with polite concern.

Hermione dumbly shook her head and resumed walking.

"I hope I am not sounding callous. She was offered any assistance necessary to be able to complete the school term. Medically speaking, there was no reason for her departure."

Hermione barely suppressed a snort.

"And, should any other students find themselves in the same situation, they, too, would be most welcome to remain." He delivered the mild-sounding remark without even looking at her, but it was clear that he was fishing for information.

Hermione got a bit of satisfaction out of that. So Snape hadn't reported back about his visit to her house. Strangely, she applauded him for keeping mum about it. It had been an odd enough visit; possibly he had revealed more than he in hindsight had thought prudent, or he had decided that the entire action had been ill-thought-out, and preferred not to reveal it to Dumbledore. Secrets within secrets.

They had arrived at the Hogwarts gates now. The Headmaster tapped the padlock with his wand, and the chain slipped away, allowing the gate to swing silently inward.

"Ah, I see that Hagrid is at home." Dumbledore nodded toward the gamekeeper's hut, whose chimney was billowing merrily. "You would be doing me a great favor if you would stop in and remind him to hitch up the Thestrals to pick the others up from the station. I'm afraid I must attend to some other business rather urgently."

"Of course, sir," Hermione responded with a sinking feeling in her heart. Not that she had anything against Hagrid (he was in fact the only person at Hogwarts whom she knew for certain would be happy to see her); she just wasn't sure that she felt up to stoat sandwiches and whatever new pets he might have acquired over the holidays.

"Oh, and I venture to say that when you arrive at Gryffindor Tower, you will find 'abstinence' to be a new word in the Fat Lady's vocabulary. She and her friend Violet seem to have dipped a bit too deeply into Friar Pius' wine reserves," the headmaster ended with a wink, before parting ways with her and continuing up the main drive to the castle, whilst Hermione veered off onto the muddy path at the bottom of the lawn.

Fang's loud barks hailed her approach, and before she was even able to reach the door, Hagrid flung it open and looked out eagerly.

"Oh, it's you, Hermione!" A broad smile lit up his face, but quickly turned to a frown of apprehension as he rummaged in his pocket and came up with a timepiece, which he studied carefully. "Did the train get in early? It wasn't due 'til four."

"No, Hagrid, I came on my own a bit early. There's still time."

He sighed in relief and re-stowed the watch. "That's good. Thumper an' the others look forward to meetin' the train durin' the whole holiday. Wouldn' like ter disappoint 'em."

Although she was fairly certain she knew the answer, Hermione nevertheless inquired, "Thumper?"

"Why, he's one o' the Thestrals. Remember when I introduced yer to them in class? In fact, he's one o' the ones helped you an' Harry an' the others get to London last year. Surprised yeh don' remember."

Hermone reminded herself to be kind. "Of course I remember the Thestrals, Hagrid. I just didn't remember the name," she explained.

"Well, come on, then," he said, his good mood returning. "You can get re-acquainted with 'em while I get the carriages ready. Let's go, Fang!" The boarhound bounded out of the hut and jumped around Hermione eagerly, and she couldn't help but be caught up just a bit in his excitement. She bent down and scraped together a snow ball from the dirty slush at the edge of the path, then threw it in the air for Fang to snap at.

Hagrid walked briskly toward the castle, asking Hermione about her holidays, to which she made polite but shallow remarks.

"Wasn't much goin' on 'round here, neither," Hagrid consoled her. "Most o' the professors were gone, too, an' not many students stayed. Pretty much jus' Dumbledore an' the Heads. Well, an' me." He gave Hermione a broad grin. "Brought Grawpie down for Christmas dinner. Think he was really touched. Tried ter sing along when Dumbledore led the caroling, bless his little heart, even if Professor Sprout did have ter hand out some o' her earmuffs. An' he only tried to eat Professor Snape once, but tha' wasn't really his fault. The professor was standin' a bit too close to the desserts tray. He's awfully fond o' mince pies, is Grawp." Hagrid sighed and shook his head with a nostalgic smile on his face.

"It's too bad someone stopped him," Hermione muttered darkly.

"Eh, Hermione," Hagrid remonstrated her gently, "I know you don' like Professor Snape much, an' I can't say as I blame you, but Professor Dumbledore's always stood up fer him. He's not all bad." They had been walking not toward the main entrance, but to the west wing of the castle, where a carriage house was nestled against the outer wall. Hagrid now dropped the burlap bag he'd been carrying and swung the big double doors open to reveal a row of familiar coaches: the ones that Hermione had always assumed drove by themselves.

"Hagrid, I'm sorry," Hermione said, "I know you put a lot of faith in what Professor Dumbledore says, but there is nothing good about that… that man." It set her teeth on edge just talking about him.

Hagrid appeared to consider this for a moment as he pulled the first carriage out onto the drive, and then his face lit up in understanding. "Ah, I know what yeh mean. Did yeh find out that he used ter run with You-Know-Who's crowd? It's no secret, it was in all the papers back then…" he confided. "Before yer time, anyway. But you can be certain, those days are long gone. He was jus' in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could happen to anyone. Look at me. I've had my own share of trouble. Time was, only Dumbledore believed in me."

"I think this is a little different. You never actually did anything, did you? He did. He has." It was strange; she had gone all this time trying to forget what Snape had done to her, trying to make sure that no one would find out. And now, she was actually on the verge of telling Hagrid.

But the half-giant was already jumping to another conclusion. "You mean him takin' all those points away from Harry at the start of term?"

Hermione was momentarily confused, but then recalled the scuffle Harry and Malfoy had been involved in, and the resulting negative points for Gryffindor. _And once again,_ she thought bitterly, _everything_ _is reduced to Harry._

Yeh, I heard 'bout that," Hagrid said, mistaking the look on Hermione's face for one of surprise. "I agree, it was a bit harsh, but it doesn't mean he's a bad fellow." He stooped down and pulled a slab of fresh meat – rabbit, from the looks of it – out of the bag on the ground, and tossed it down before the coach. "Now watch," he said eagerly. "It won' be a minute." He craned his neck and surveyed the skyline in the direction of the Forest. "They can smell blood five miles away, did yeh know that?"

"Mmh," Hermione replied, also scanning the sky nervously. She was not much looking forward to seeing the skeletal equines. And this time, she _would_ be able to see them.

"Anyway," Hagrid continued, "like I was sayin', you don't have to like him, but he's on our side, that's fer certain."

"I don't see that that really matters. He may be helping Professor Dumbledore, but he's still a terrible person." She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

"What you've got to understan' about Professor Snape, Hermione, is tha' he's never been very good with people."

Hermione snorted. "That's an understatement if I ever heard one."

Hagrid continued, "An' so that sort of makes people not be good with him, if you get my meaning. Don' think he ever really had any friends."

"That's no excuse!" Hermione retorted vehemently.

"Mebbe not," Hagrid allowed. "But one thing I know, if ever you need somethin' done, an' done right, Professor Snape's the one to ask. Ah, look, here they are!" Hagrid pointed unnecessarily at the flock of black figures looming over them, and Hermione tried not to dive for cover as they landed and began tearing at the meat.

+++000+++000+++

"Harry! Ginny!"

Hermione ran up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. After Hagrid had hitched the thestrals to the carriages, he'd invited her round the back of his house to see how the hippogriff they'd saved from the executioner's axe was doing. There had been no more talk of Snape, and she had found herself becoming infected by Hagrid's good nature. She was even looking forward to talking to Harry, and she'd run to catch up with him when she'd seen him trudging up the lawn. But he wasn't alone. The obligatory redheads were with him, and the sight of Ron, more than anything else, brought home to her once again how much things had changed.

As she got closer, her heart dropped more and more. How in the world was she going to deal with Ron? It killed her to be around him and not have things be the way they were; and so she decided to ignore him. It was her only chance to get through the rest of this evening without completely losing it.

"I got back a couple of hours ago," she panted, catching up to them just outside the portrait hole. "I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck—Witherwings. Did you have a good Christmas?" She was looking at Harry as she spoke, but Ron answered.

"Yeah, pretty eventful," he said eagerly, "Rufus Scrim —"

Just hearing Ron's voice sent a stab of pain right to her heart. She angled herself so that she couldn't see him and spoke over him: "I've got something for you, Harry." They were still standing in the corridor, and she begged silently for Ron and Ginny to go on ahead, letting her talk to Harry alone. At the same moment, she realized that they'd come directly from the station, and must not have been informed of the new password. "Oh, hang on — password. Abstinence."

The Fat Lady barely looked up from where she lay draped across her chair, one hand gripping her forehead. "Precisely," she groaned and swung gingerly open.

"What's up with her?" asked Harry, signaling for Hermione to go first.

"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," she explained over her shoulder. "She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway..."

She waited until Harry had joined her, then pulled him aside before Ron could say anything more and thrust the bit of parchment at him which Dumbledore had given her.

Harry took it enthusiastically and quickly scanned the contents. "Great!" he said, apparently discovering that it was an invitation to the Headmaster's office. "I've got loads to tell him — and you. Let's sit down —"

He started toward an empty table, and Ron moved to join him. Dismayed, Hermione dithered, not wanting to sit down with Ron, but also desperately wanting to hear what Harry had to say, when she was startled by a blonde-and-pink flurry that shot past her and nearly bowled Ron over.

"Won-Won!" it shrieked, and began attaching itself to him. Her roommate, Lavender.

Hermione felt even more sick; she'd forgotten about Lavender. How could she have forgotten about Lavender? Now she would be forced to see the two of them with their hands and tongues all over each other on a daily basis. She swore right then to spend every waking hour in the library, a place she was sure never to run into either one of them. For the time being, though, she forced out a laugh, which came out sounding high and stiff.

"There's a table over here..." Harry pointed at it. "Coming. Ginny?" he added, looking at her expectantly. Hermione's stomach clenched unpleasantly. Not that she had anything against Ginny per se, but she was unavoidably Ron's sister. In addition, with her around, they couldn't speak openly about things like Death Eaters and Draco Malfoy.

"No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny in a way that said she wasn't much looking forward to it, and headed across the common room. Relieved, Hermione followed Harry and took a seat across from him.

"So how was your Christmas?" he asked.

"Oh, fine," she said, trying to look unconcerned. "Nothing special." _And thus begin the lies._ "How was it at Won-Won's?" She pulled a face as she said it.

"I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. He glanced over at Ron and Lavender, who were still trying to get into each other's trousers right there in front of the portrait hole. Harry grimaced, and began to say, "Look, Hermione, can't you —"

"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask." And it was true. She literally couldn't. She couldn't just pretend that nothing had happened between them, that nothing had changed.

"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —" Harry stumbled on.

"It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me," Hermione snapped. "So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?"

Giving up on trying to get his two friends to make up, Harry hunched over the table toward Hermione and spoke in a confidential tone. "All right. Remember the last day of term? Slughorn's Christmas party?"

"How could I forget?" Hermione replied impatiently. "I spent the entire time trying to escape that ape, McLaggen."

"Oh yeah." Harry smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry you had to go with him. But if you'd gone with Ron, like you'd—"

Hermione felt the back of her throat tightening, and she said, more harshly than she intended, "Would you leave it be, Harry? I can't—Things happened, things changed. Just… Just leave it, all right?"

"All right, all right. Sorry. That's not really the point, anyway. I don't know if you noticed, but Malfoy tried to crash the party. Slughorn wanted to let him stay, but Snape took him out right quick. I smelled a rat, so I snuck out, too. I mean, why should Snape care whether Malfoy hangs out with a bunch of old brown-nosers, anyway? And if he was just concerned about Malfoy breaking a rule, he could have sent him back down to the dorms on his own, or assigned him a detention or something. So I followed them."

"You followed them?" Hermione asked in a whisper. "Where'd they go?" But she knew where they had gone. That must have been when Snape and Draco had shown up in the same room she had taken refuge in, after … after Snape had touched her. Her skin crawled at the memory.

"I caught up with them in an empty classroom. I didn't actually go in; I just heard them through the door. But they were having some sort of argument."

"Really?" Hermione asked feebly. "What about?"

…_a traitor to the cause … things you do not understand … the Unbreakable Vow … _The words echoed in her mind, as well as the smells of old wood and dusty upholstery that had been in her nose as she'd crouched behind the furniture, her heart slamming against her chest in fear at being caught eavesdropping by the two Death Eaters.

Hermione barely listened as Harry recounted the same conversation that she had heard. Only it seemed that she had heard a bit more than he, or he hadn't thought some of it important, because he focused on the part about Draco having a task, an assignment which could only have come from Voldemort. He didn't mention anything about Draco questioning Snape's loyalty. Which meant that he only suspected Draco of doing Lord Voldemort's bidding, not Snape.

When he had was done talking, Hermione took a moment to think about what to say, without giving away that she had been there, too. She decided to stick to what seemed to be Harry's reason for telling her, namely that Draco was doing something for Voldemort, and Snape knew about it… and wasn't trying to stop him. This was obviously old news to her. Of course Snape was working for Voldemort. But she couldn't lead Harry in that direction. It would bring him too close to what had happened to her. She had to play the innocent and actually back up Snape's cover. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Don't you think — ?" she began, but Harry interrupted:

"— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?"

"Well, yes," said Hermione, relieved that he'd said it before her.

"Ron's dad and Lupin think so," Harry admitted. "But this definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that."

She quickly reviewed what Harry had told her, and decided that there was enough evidence from what he'd heard to come to that conclusion. "No, I can't," she agreed hesitantly.

"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!" He looked around to make sure no one had heard him say the name.

Hermione took this as a cue to try to sow doubt in Harry's mind as to whether Draco really was talking about Voldemort. Because the more circumstantial evidence he collected, the more he would dig, and that might just lead to him finding out about Hallowe'en. And she didn't want him to find that out. "Hmm … did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" she asked in her most innocent voice.

Harry furrowed his brow, thinking hard. "I'm not sure ... Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else would that be?"

"I don't know…" said Hermione, considering alternatives. "Maybe his father?" She tried to think of a way to get Harry off the subject of Malfoy. She could bring up his relationship with Ginny, but that would inevitably lead to a renewal of the subject of her and Ron. Suddenly, inspiration struck: "How's Lupin?" she asked brightly.

Harry sighed and took the bait. "Not great. He's been living underground—literally."

"What do you mean?"

"The werewolves. Apparently, there's a whole group of them living in the sewers and subways tunnels of London. Dumbledore sent him to make contact with them. He's been pretending he's one of them, only coming out at night, having to steal food."

Hermione was horrified. "But that's awful! What in the world does Professor Dumbledore hope to gain by risking Professor Lupin's life like that?"

"Professor Lupin knows what he's doing. He has to do it. He's the only one who can. Voldemort's trying to get the werewolves on his side. He's promised them all the Muggles they care to eat if they'll swear loyalty to him."

"That's disgusting! But werewolves aren't usually that bloodthirsty. Most of them are perfectly normal and either take their Wolfsbane or take precautions not to harm anyone when they transform. Why would they be tempted by Voldemort's offer?"

"They've got a leader: Fenrir Greyback. Professor Lupin said he's a real monster. Crazy. Maybe the others are afraid of him. He was the one who bit Professor Lupin."

"And he's trying to make him believe he's on his side now?"

"Like I said, Professor Lupin knows what he's doing. By the way, have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?"

"Yes, I have!" exclaimed Hermione as something clicked in her head. "And so have you, Harry!" So excited was she by this new discovery that she failed to consider that she was leading them right back to Malfoy.

"When, History of Magic?" Harry joked. "You know full well I never listened ..."

"No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened Borgin with him!" said Hermione. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!"

Harry's jaw dropped, then he slapped a hand to his forehead. "I forgot! But this proves Malfoy's a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?"

"It is pretty suspicious," whispered Hermione. "Unless . . ." She hadn't meant to lead Harry right back onto this track, and now was trying to find some way to make the connection seem an innocent one, but Harry rolled his eyes at her.

"Oh, come on, you can't get round this one!"

"Well . . . there is the possibility it was an empty threat," she began weakly.

"You're unbelievable, you are," said Harry, but he smiled and shook his head as he said it. "We'll see who's right. . . . You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry."

If she did, she felt certain that she'd be violently ill. Here she was, practically lying to her best friend – her only friend, she corrected – and protecting two of the most despicable individuals on the face of the Earth. Although it wasn't for their sakes, she reasoned; it was only to protect herself. Why couldn't she just tell Harry what had happened? Confirm his suspicions about Malfoy, and feed his hatred toward Snape? Because it wouldn't really do any good: Knowing that Malfoy was a Death Eater wouldn't help Harry to stop him from doing whatever it was that he was planning, just as knowing that Snape was a pathetic excuse for a human being wouldn't help to stop Voldemort. In fact, it might make it harder, because knowing Harry, he would want to go on a vendetta against Snape, and Dumbledore needed Snape where he was for his own plans. For finally, whatever else the Headmaster's faults might be, Hermione firmly believed that he knew what he was doing in the fight against Voldemort. If he didn't, they were lost.

+++000+++000+++


	18. Chapter 18: January

Next morning: Notice of Apparition lessons appears; Hermione signs up, when Lavender comes up and H

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 18**

**January**

Although still socially isolated, Hermione found the other students to be much less hostile and off-putting than she had remembered; maybe it was just because she herself was less tense. On their first night back in the dorm, Lavender and Parvati chattered about their holidays, trying to include Hermione but not pressing her when it was clear she had nothing piquant to reveal. At least they didn't rub any news of 'Won-Won' in her face, nor make any mention of rumours regarding her real or imagined romantic attachments.

The first chance she got, Hermione went to see Madam Pomfrey to double-check the Muggle pregnancy test results. She felt a bit foolish doing so, and even more so after Madam Pomfrey assured her that she'd run a pregnancy test as part of the initial examination. It had been negative, as had the other checks for sexually transmitted diseases. The nurse said she hadn't wanted to worry Hermione needlessly by going into unnecessary details; certainly she would have told her if there had been a problem.

Hermione privately wished that Madam Pomfrey had explicitly explained all that back then. It would have saved her from those days of worrying during the holidays. She did vaguely recall being told something about 'no lasting effects' or something along those lines, and a pregnancy would certainly have been a lasting effect, but she preferred not to press the point.

However, she still had no satisfactory reason for why her menses had failed to appear, and a second, equally dire explanation began to occur to her: Could it be that she had suffered internal damage to her reproductive organs, or that a curse had been placed on her that would cause her to remain barren?

When she tentatively voiced these concerns to Madam Pomfrey, the nurse assured her kindly but firmly (as if her professional expertise had been questioned) that there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with her. ("You're a very lucky young lady, Miss Granger." Hermione was getting perfectly sick of hearing that.)

And as for an undetected curse – Madam Pomfrey looked at Hermione over the tops of her glasses, her soft, white hands folded neatly on the desk before her – "Anything is possible, of course, but I certainly don't see any indication of it. Infertility curses are usually accompanied by abdominal pain, cramping, or heavy bleeding at the time of casting, and quite often for many weeks, months, or even years afterwards, although—" she admitted—"not always. As you haven't suffered any of those symptoms, I don't believe you have anything to worry about.

"However, if it would set your mind at ease, I can arrange for you to see a fertility specialist. I think it most likely that your body is still in a bit of shock, and has shut down that particular system for the time being. If you want, we can try a potion that will set things into motion and force a cycle."

The idea of the fertility specialist, another stranger poking around at her body, was not exactly appealing, especially as it wasn't like she actually wanted to get pregnant. A quick vision of a waiting room filled with anxious couples flashed before her mind's eye. "I don't think a specialist will be necessary," she said quickly. "But maybe we could try the potion." It was funny – When she'd had her period in the past, she'd always seen it as an utter nuisance and wished it over with as quickly as possible. Now, though, she yearned for it as a sign of normalcy.

"Very well, then." Pomfrey nodded. "I don't keep this potion in stock, not much call for it, so I'll have to ask Severus to brew some—"

"Oh, no!" Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself. He, brew a potion for her? For such an intimate purpose? She shuddered. In fact, thinking about it, if Snape prepared all of the potions for the hospital wing, she wasn't at all sure she wanted to be treated there any more.

"What's the matter, Miss Granger?" the nurse asked, perplexed.

Hermione avoided her eye. "I—I wouldn't want to bother him with it. Isn't there some other way to get it?"

Madam Pomfrey blinked. "Why, yes, we could order one from the apothecary at St. Mungo's. But that would take a couple of days. It all depends on whether they have any ready in stock."

"I can wait," Hermione answered promptly, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"I can assure you, I wouldn't tell Severus who the potion is for, if that's what you're worried about. And in any case, he is a professional."

"That's not it, it's just—I'd rather have the potion from St. Mungo's, if that's all right." She fervently hoped that Pomfrey wouldn't question her further.

The nurse watched Hermione for a moment, seeming to consider something, but then acquiesced. "All right, if that's your preference. I can send the request by owl now—" She looked out the window, gauging the time. "They should receive it by this evening, but they won't be able to fill it until tomorrow, maybe the next day. If they need to make it, it will take another day."

"That's fine," Hermione said quickly and stood up. She was embarrassed and actually wanted to forget about the whole thing at this point.

"Very well. I will let you know when it arrives."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you." She turned to go, but the nurse spoke once more.

"Oh, Hermione?"

"Yes?" She turned back, already dreading a renewed entry on the subject of her reproductive system.

Madam Pomfrey smiled at her kindly. "I just want you to know, I think you are a very strong young woman. Quite remarkable."

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, before rapidly departing.

The next morning, when she awoke, it was to a familiar vague sensation of discomfort in her lower back. Half excited, half anxious, she hurried to the toilet and found that all the talk of potions and fertility experts had been enough to jolt her body into gear. With shaking fingers, she took a blood crystal from the jar that stood in every girls' bathroom and was about to insert it when she reconsidered; witches generally caught their monthly bleed in the crystals, which could then be ground up for use in various healing and fertility potions. But now, she carefully replaced the sparkling crystal and unrolled a small wad of toilet paper. It took her a couple of tries, but she managed to Transfigure it into a serviceable tampon. She wouldn't be saving this blood. This was the detritus of whatever it was that had been left inside her. She wanted it gone, destroyed, perhaps even burnt. After this week, perhaps, finally, she would feel clean.

+000+000+

The first Defense class wasn't until mid-week, so Hermione had a few days to steel herself for it. She was, understandably, apprehensive about seeing Snape again, but not because she feared another attack. Now, it was because she was afraid that he might have gone completely round the twist. He had spouted such odd things at her parents' house. And if her ruminations on his life outside of the classroom were in any way accurate, he was due for a breakdown any day.

But when she entered the classroom, barely on time, Snape looked much the same as she remembered him: Cold and scowling, clad all in black, with his hair hanging limply down either side of his angular face. He acted no differently, either, snapping at Dean and Seamus for no good reason and making an oily comment regarding Blaise's apparent hangover. The lesson was short on discussion, consisting mainly of a pop quiz reviewing the previous term's content. His callousness and apparent lack of feeling would have been shocking to her, had she not already been shocked nearly beyond human capacity by everything else which had gone before. Still, she remained on her guard and kept a low profile, not wishing to incite another outburst.

All in all, it was a rather anticlimactic return, and there were moments when Hermione almost felt as if the past months had fallen into some sort of time warp, only existing in her own memory. But then reality would invade again in the form of Ron and Lavender laughing in the corridor, or feeding each other grapes at lunch. Hermione's throat still tightened whenever she would see such a scene, but it was better this way, she reminded herself as she rushed out of the Great Hall, her appetite disappeared. He was obviously happy with Lavender. It was good that he had someone.

As for Harry, his conversation with Hermione that first night back seemed only to fuel his obsession with Draco Malfoy. He spent every free moment he had tracking the Slytherin boy. In a previous year, Hermione would have gotten more involved, found some way to either prove or disprove what Harry suspected. But not this time. For one thing, she already knew that Draco was a Death Eater. She could easily have told Harry about where Draco had been on Halloween, but that would have meant revealing what had happened to her as well, and she just couldn't do it. She already felt awful about nearly lying to him that first night back. It wouldn't make any difference anyway, whether Harry knew the truth about Draco's involvement with Voldemort's organization. All it would do would be to feed his hatred. She was resolved to stay out of the whole thing from that point forward.

However, when Harry came to her and reported what Dumbledore had told him about the mysterious 'Horcruxes', Hermione's insatiable curiosity was piqued. It seemed a good distraction for her, so she repaired to the library, boldly entering the Restricted Section for the first time since she had run into Professor Snape there. She kept expecting to see his scowling form lurking behind the next stack, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned a corner and did see a tall, black-robed figure reaching up to pull a book down; it turned out to be a seventh-year Ravenclaw, who returned her startled gasp with a raised eyebrow and a sniff.

Clenching her fists, she scowled, both at him and at herself, and made herself concentrate on the task at hand. Since Harry was supposed to get the information from Slughorn, she headed for the shelf with Potions texts. Her first thought was that Horcruxes could be a class of potions, like love potions or healing potions. But of course they must be something Dark, otherwise there wouldn't be such a problem getting information on them.

Two hours of squinting at faded ink later, she rubbed her aching neck and glared at the pile of codices, books, and scrolls before her. If a 'Horcrux' (or Hoarcrux, Whore-Crocks, Hohrkracks, or any of the alternate spellings she had searched for) was a kind of potion, it was either not mentioned, or called something else altogether. But surely, if Professor Slughorn knew of it, it must be mentioned somewhere! He couldn't have gotten his information by osmosis. Unless he had invented it, and never written it down, or kept the manuscript hidden elsewhere… in which case there really would be no way to get the information other than from him. It was so frustrating! It must be terribly important, for Professor Dumbledore to have set Harry the task of wheedling it out of their Potions professor.

Wait a moment. Their Potions professor. Maybe… She felt the beginnings of dread creeping over her at the thought. But maybe Professor Snape knew something. She didn't recall Slughorn ever mentioning Snape as having been part of his inner circle Slug Club, but he surely had been a talented student. Talented enough to take over Slughorn's position when he retired. And she recalled what Hagrid had said about Snape having been a Death Eater when he was young. It was entirely likely that he had dabbled in Dark potions at that time … if not later as well.

Her skin felt prickly. She knew what had to be done. She had to tell Harry to go talk to Snape.

+000+000+

"No way, Hermione."

"But Harry," she pleaded, "don't you think it makes sense?"

"Professor Dumbledore told me to get the information from Slughorn, not from him."

"Maybe… Well, maybe he thought, given your … poor experience with him …"

"You mean how he broke into my mind so that Voldemort could implant those false visions?" he said fiercely.

"If you'd only practiced—" she blurted out with her patent response from last year.

"Don't make it my fault, Hermione!" Harry said in a threatening tone.

She stopped and took a deep breath. This wasn't what she'd wanted to do. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. Harry. He was wrong. Totally, completely wrong. I know that now."

"Now? Why now? Did you think he was right before?" Harry was still angry.

"No! I mean—I thought he was doing what Dumbledore had told him to, and so for that reason it must have been the right thing to do. But maybe Dumbledore wasn't thinking of you; maybe he was thinking of a larger plan, and your lessons with Snape were just a way to achieve something else."

"You're not making any sense now. You mean you think that Dumbledore wanted Voldemort to have access to my mind?" Harry asked incredulously.

"No!" Hermione nearly stamped her foot in frustration. "Now you're twisting my words around. What I meant to say is, maybe Dumbledore didn't foresee all the consequences of sending you to Snape. He does make mistakes, you know."

"Really," Harry commented dryly.

Hermione gave Harry a wry look, but continued, "And maybe Snape took Dumbledore's orders and went in the wrong direction with them, or did what he thought was best in the situation, but it turned out to be completely wrong." Like what he had done to her.

"You've got that part right. He took advantage of the situation to get back at me for something my father did. And the result was, he got Sirius killed!"

Wincing, Hermione pointed out, "Harry, to be fair, Sirius went to the Ministry of his own accord because he thought you were in danger. Snape was the one who alerted the Order that we were there. Without him, we might all have been killed instead." She rubbed protectively at the spot where Dolohov's curse had hit her and considered that was twice that he had saved her from mortal injury… although his methods were more than questionable.

"Great, so you're defending him again. Snape, our Saviour," Harry bit out viciously.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. "Stop. We're just going in circles." She sighed and looked up. "The Horcruxes," she reminded him wearily. "I think he may know something about the Horcruxes. If Slughorn won't budge… maybe he will."

"Hermione, that's mad! Listen to you! You think that Snape would actually willingly tell me, the person he hates the most on the earth, how to make this Dark potion or whatever it is, when he wouldn't tell Dumbledore? Especially if, according to your theory, everything he does anyway is only on Dumbledore's orders? I'm supposed to get the information from Slughorn because apparently he had a soft spot for my mother. I've got nothing on Snape, no leverage, nothing. What's worse, he hated my father, and he probably didn't feel much differently towards my mother, as she was Muggleborn. He'll see me dead and buried and the rest of the world too, I'd bet, before he'd give me the time of day, much less share some dark, hidden secret. I'm sorry, Hermione, but this time you're barking."

Hermione hadn't pressed the point any further, thinking that Harry was probably right. Snape would never willingly help Harry, especially if even Dumbledore hadn't been able to get the information he needed from him. Unless Dumbledore had never tried. Incredible as it was to think of, they'd both just agreed that Dumbledore made mistakes. Maybe the Headmaster was so set on Slughorn as his source that he'd overlooked another one right under his nose. She could forget about Harry approaching him; as he'd said, aside from the fact that he hated him, he had no leverage over Snape anyway. But Hermione did.

+000+000+

Snape put the last of the students' essays away and pushed himself smoothly away from the desk. He was not fooled. Potter's female sidekick might be acting relatively normal again (as normal as teenagers acted anyway), but he knew that the business between them was not finished. She had been watching him the past week, ever since they had returned from the Christmas holidays, in fact. He wasn't surprised; he had made a bit of a fool of himself during that home visit. He hoped he had scared her well enough. She could do with a bit of sense being scared into her.

He left his office, but not without first procuring a tub of unguent from his private storage cabinet: He had an appointment with Dumbledore. His visits were becoming more frequent; soon, there would be nothing more to do.

They were all so reckless, he considered, scowling, as he stalked through the empty corridors: she, Potter, and their gang. Oblivious to the dangers they put themselves in. Running off to the Ministry alone, thinking they could take on adults fully trained in combat; traipsing about the grounds alone at night shortly after an infiltration by Death Eaters. Stupid little Gryffindors. They think things will always work out for them. Had things worked out for Sirius Black or James Potter? And as they would all soon see, even their precious Albus Dumbledore was no stranger to hubris.

Draco Malfoy was no better, the arrogant brat. In way over his head but refusing to see reason. It must be an artifact of their age. Now he was saddled with the three of them: Potter, Malfoy, and Granger. Dumbledore, too, if you wanted to look at it that way. All of them needing to be protected, from themselves more than anything else.

His duty toward Harry would be over when the boy turned seventeen in just a few months. As long as Harry didn't do something incredibly stupid, like go out and try to hunt the Dark Lord down (although Snape wouldn't put it past him), there was every chance he'd make it until then alive, with little effort on Snape's part. Hogwarts was still relatively safe, despite the break-in on Halloween. And that little security leak had since been sealed. Even so, Snape knew that the Dark Lord was not yet ready to confront Potter. Something was holding him back. Five years of repeated failed attempts had made him more cautious, particularly his near-defeat by the elderly Headmaster in the Department of Mysteries the previous year. Lord Voldemort was not about to make another flat-out attempt on Harry as long as Dumbledore was still around. He needed him out of the way first. Little did he know how close he was to having his wishes fulfilled, and not because of Draco's feeble attempts, Snape thought grimly.

The Vow he'd taken to protect Draco would be resolved soon, then; the curse the Headmaster was suffering from would see to that. Again, as long as Draco didn't inadvertently kill himself whilst mucking about with Cursed objects and poisons, Snape needed do nothing else than sit back and wait for Dumbledore to die; he felt confident that it could be made to look as if Draco had done it, or at least facilitated it far enough to have completed the Dark Lord's assignment.

Granger, though, was trickier. Magically speaking, he was under no obligation to her. But once again, Dumbledore felt otherwise. Damn him and his ponderous morality. Soul magic, he called it, but all it boiled down to was old-fashioned honour. He had dishonoured her. Therefore, he must make recompense.

Pah! Snape's lip curled in disgust. Was he to apologize for not killing her? For not destroying her mind? Not that he expected her to be grateful. But she _had_ escaped all but unscathed. The physical act she had been forced to endure was meaningless. It had been for him, why shouldn't it be for her? Oh, yes, he knew that females were very often silly about that kind of thing, but from what little he knew of Granger, she seemed to be more practical-minded than most. Surely she would realize that it had been a necessary part of the scenario to enact. There was no place for emotions. He had learned that from very young. To allow oneself emotions is to suffer. Well, she would just have to learn that as well, if she didn't want to continue to suffer.

Snape stoically readied himself for another round of sparring over it as he reached the Headmaster's staircase and spoke the password.

+000+000+

Hermione considered how she would go about it for over a week. Ask him straight out, tell him it was for Dumbledore? Try and trick the information out of him somehow? Blackmail? The worst part was, she had no idea how he'd react. He was so unpredictable. The time and place would also be crucial. She certainly didn't want to corner him alone, late at night, in some remote corner of the dungeons. On the other hand, she couldn't very well raise her hand in class and ask about Horcruxes.

It would have to be something in between: private, but not secluded. She didn't like the idea of going up to him after class. For one thing, there was never much time between classes, and for another, she didn't want to risk another student coming in and overhearing. It would have to be in his office.

And she would definitely not be confronting him alone. In addition to putting her into a very uncomfortable position, in the past her attempts at speaking to him had gone exactly nowhere. It could be that if she had company, he would be more willing to at least give some sort of civil answer.

However, the pool of potential mediators was small. Harry might possibly agree to go with her, but that wouldn't exactly put Snape into a mood conducive to talking about the Horcruxes. And there was no one else who could be allowed to hear about them… other than Ron. There was nothing for it. She would just have to get him to come with her. She didn't want to, but there was no other way. She would explain about Snape and Harry. Make him see that they had to help. But that meant that she would have to talk to Ron first. Alone.

She went back and forth with herself on it for the entire weekend. She was actually on the verge of catching up to him on Sunday evening, when she saw him coming in from Quidditch practice, but Lavender beat her to it, running over and flinging her arms around his neck, and she soured at the thought of interrupting the two, instead stomping up to the dorms so that she could be asleep before Lavender came in and shared all the gory details of her snogging session.

Come Monday, though, when Harry confided that he had finally approached Slughorn, but gotten the brush-off, and wasn't inclined to try again at the moment, Hermione's sense of indignance at his head-in-the-sand techniques overcame her embarrassment factor, and she very stiffly turned to Ron – Lavender had just fed him a large piece of her breakfast roll – cleared her throat, and said, "Ronald. I need to speak to you."

Ron and Lavender both looked at Hermione curiously.

"Wha--?" Ron said thickly around the bread in his mouth.

"I need to speak to you," Hermione repeated primly.

Ron made a motion with his fork, indicating that she should go ahead.

"Alone." Hermione felt the eyes of their housemates on her.

Lavender giggled. "Oh, come on, Hermione." She dabbed at Ron's cheek with her napkin. "Whatever you have to tell Ronnie you can say in front of me. And if you don't want me to hear it, you shouldn't be saying it to him in the first place." She gave Hermione a cool smile.

Hermione sneered. "Oh please. I'm not interested in trying to take him away from you." She looked at Ron. "This is important."

"Need help with your Defense homework, do you?" Lavender simpered. "I've noticed you've been quiet in there lately. I could help you, you know," she offered, now turning more sincere. "I got an E on the last quiz." She looked around proudly.

"An E?" Ron looked aghast. "I only got an A!"

Hermione scowled; she had also gotten an A, but she wasn't about to let everyone know that. The fact that Lavender had done better than she had was a real slap in the face, but the problem wasn't a lack of understanding the material, nor was it, truth be told, favoritism on the part of Snape. She simply didn't care anymore, and had written the test paper as quickly as possible in order to be done with it and get out of the classroom.

She pointedly ignored Lavender and said testily, "Ron, if you have an ounce of your own will left, I would appreciate it if you could find me later on, alone, to discuss something very, very important. Please." She allowed herself to look him in the eye – had they always been that perfect shade of blue? – and felt something stir in her. Disconcerted and not trusting herself not to cry, she got up without waiting for an answer and rushed out of the Great Hall.

Snape noticed her leave. He couldn't help it. He always noticed what she did. Granger, Malfoy, Potter… They couldn't escape his notice. Or rather, his notice couldn't escape them. He was sure that Dumbledore had noticed as well, and he deliberately did not turn toward the Headmaster, in order to avoid another one of his annoying knowing looks, urging him to act. Instead, he calmly stirred his tea exactly once, picked up the cup, and drained it, all the while keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and focused on nothing at all. If he forced himself not to think of any of them, maybe they would all just go away and leave him alone.

+000+000+

Hermione more than half hoped that Ron would forget about the scene she'd made that morning, or that Lavender would prevent him from seeking her out, or at the very least that the floor would simply open up and swallow her whole. She should have just kept out of it. It was Harry's task. Dumbledore knew more than she did. But maybe Dumbledore knew that Harry wouldn't be able to get the information out of Slughorn, and that Harry would go to Hermione for help, and that Hermione would figure out that Snape should have the information they needed, and …

Hermione threw her quill down in frustration and rubbed her temples. Maybe this whole thing was just a set-up for some other purpose entirely. Maybe there was no such thing as Horcruxes, or if there were, they weren't what Dumbledore was actually after. Maybe he was having Harry, and by extension, Hermione, do his dirty work for him. Intrigues within intrigues, plans within plans.

Her back ached, and she stretched, just in time to see a lanky red-head half-clad in Quidditch gear striding across the library toward her. Her stomach did a flip and she unconsciously clutched her robe together at the neck, then pretended she hadn't seen him and bent her head over her books again, all the while realizing how ridiculous she was being. After all, she had practically ordered him to come. She forced herself to look up and smile when he got to her table, although it probably came off looking more like an awkward grimace.

"What's so important?" Ron asked, flopping himself down onto the chair opposite her and pulling off his gloves the rest of the way. "I can't stay long. Lav'll come looking for me."

"Got you on a short lead, has she?" Hermione blurted out without thinking.

Ron glared at her. "I didn't come here for you to insult my girlfriend."

"No. Sorry." Hermione took a deep breath. "It's about Harry."

Ron snorted and slapped the gloves down onto the table. "It's always about Harry, isn't it? And here I thought you might be wanting to apologize for how you've been acting."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Me? Apologize for how _I've_ been acting? When you're the one who's been ignoring _me_?"

"I have not! You're the one who scuppers off whenever you see me coming. You've been acting weird for a couple of months now."

"I have not been acting 'weird'!" Hermione protested, all too conscious that he was right. "You've just been so busy sucking face with Lav-Lav I'm surprised you're even aware that other people exist!"

"That's it," Ron said, standing up. "I knew this was stupid, I don't know what I was thinking when I agreed to come." His face contorted in an ugly scowl.

Hermione cringed inwardly. This was going all wrong! She had to cut out any personal feelings. What she felt, what she wanted, wasn't important. The mission was the important thing. With a momentary chill, she realized that she was beginning to think like Dumbledore. Quickly, though, before Ron could leave, she called out, "No, wait! I'm sorry. Look, forget about you and Lavender—I mean," she corrected herself upon catching the murderous look on Ron's face, "forget what I said. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm happy for you. That you found someone. Really," she said, making it sound as sincere as possible. She wasn't exactly happy about it, of course. But he hadn't done anything wrong. Why shouldn't he have a nice girl to mess about with?

Ron seemed to grudgingly accept her apology. "She really nice, you know," he mumbled abashedly as he sat back down.

"I'm sure," Hermione said quickly. If there was one thing she did not want to discuss, it was the relative merits of Lavender Brown. "Look, Ron, I wanted to talk to you about Harry."

Ron sighed. "Yeah, yeah, what about him?"

Hermione looked down and started toying with her quill before clearing her throat and asking in a low voice, "Did he tell you about what Dumbledore wants him to do?"

Ron shifted in his seat. "Yeah, something about getting information from Slughorn, wasn't it?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm not sure why he needs it – I don't think even Harry knows – but apparently Professor Slughorn has some very important information, something that Professor Dumbledore needs to fight Voldemort."

"So why can't Dumbledore just ask him straight out?"

"I don't know, but I think it must be something very secret and Dark. Something that might be dangerous for Professor Slughorn to reveal. But that's not the point. Ron—" She dared to look up at him again. "I think that Professor Snape has the information as well."

"Snape?" Ron's lip curled in disgust. "What's that great git got to do with it?"

"I think whatever it is, it's got something to do with potions. That's Professor Slughorn's specialty, isn't it? He used to be the Potions master here when Harry's parents were students, and he came out of retirement specially to teach Potions this year. And who was Potions master right after him, for ever so many years?"

Ron's expression showed his understanding, but he was still skeptical. "Yeah, but even so, Sluggy's loads nicer than Snape. So what if he knows whatever it is? I bet that's why Dumbledore told Harry to go to Slughorn for the information in the first place. He knew Snape'd never cooperate."

"Apparently, Professor Slughorn isn't cooperating, either. Harry told me he's already asked him about it, and he just brushed him off."

"There you have it, then. Maybe Dumbledore's barking up the wrong tree. Nothing to be done." He picked up his gloves and made to get up.

"No, wait—" Hermione reached out a hand, but didn't quite touch his arm.

"What?"

"I think we need to get the information from Snape."

"Hermione," Ron said in a tone most often used for conversing with the slightly daft, "we just said, Snape's not going to tell Harry, even if he does know whatever it is."

"I know. He won't tell Harry. But he might tell us."

Ron stared at her blankly for a moment. "What, us?" he finally managed.

"Well, me, mostly. But I need you to go with me."

"You, mostly?" Ron repeated weakly. "Wait—Let me see if I understand this. You think that Snape, the bloody greatest bastard ever to walk the face of the earth, has some Dark and secret information that not even Dumbledore can get out of him, and you're going to waltz in there and ask him pretty please and he's just going to roll over and give it to you?" Ron barked out a short laugh. "That's mental, that is!"

Hermione tried to let the insult roll off her, but it hurt nonetheless. What made it worse was that she couldn't explain to Ron why she really thought that Snape might tell her what they wanted to know. She would just have to feed him some half-truths and hope that he would go along with it. "I know it sounds mad," she admitted, "but I really think we have a chance. Everyone knows he hates Harry. That's why Professor Dumbledore didn't send Harry to him."

"And what, he doesn't hate me and you? After what he did to you?"

Hermione's heart froze. "What do you mean?" He couldn't know . . . . He couldn't possibly!

"The way he attacked you in class. Put you in the hospital wing."

She frantically racked her brains for what he might be referring to; it couldn't be Halloween, but when else had Snape attacked-- then she remembered the day in class with the Nightmare Hex. "Oh, that," she said, and was about to try to make little of it when she realized that the incident would serve her explanation well. She couldn't tell Ron what she really had on Snape, what the real reason was that she believed he might tell them about the Horcruxes, but she could pretend that the incident with the Nightmare Hex was the reason. "That. Yes," she said, willing him to believe her. "Exactly! That's why he's going to tell us what we need to know."

"Sorry, I'm not following."

Hermione began to warm to her story. "Haven't you noticed how he's laid off me in class? I think he feels guilty about it. He didn't really want to hurt me; he was trying to make Neville look stupid, and I got in the way. Telling us about the Horcruxes will, you know, let him make up for it, in a way." At least that part was true, or she hoped it was. It was their only chance for getting the information.

Ron made a derogatory face. "That's barmy. Snape doesn't feel guilty about anything."

"Well, let's hear your plan, then!" Hermione snapped.

"I haven't got one, and I don't need one!" Ron retorted in annoyance. "This is Harry's assignment, not ours. I think you should stay out of it."

"It was also Harry's idea to go to the Department of Mysteries last year! Did you want to stay out of that?" Her voice started to take on a hysterical edge. "This is easy, Ron! It doesn't involve sneaking into government offices or battling Death Eaters!" – I hope, she added silently to herself. She forced herself to calm down and give Ron one last chance to be reasonable. "It's just going with me to Snape's office and standing there while I ask him. You don't need to say anything."

"Then why don't you just go by yourself? You don't need me there if I'm not supposed to do anything."

Hermione felt tears coming on. She should have known. Ron was really not her friend any more. She should just have been able to say, 'Hey, Ron, come with me down to Snape's,' and if he were really her friend, he would have gone along without making a big deal. But it was clear now, their friendship was well and truly over. They only had a common bond through Harry, but that wasn't enough to sustain even the semblance of civility between the two of them on their own.

"Okay, you know what? Forget it." She hastily began gathering up her materials and stuffing them into her bag. "Forget it, forget it. You're right. It'll never work. He'll probably just give me a detention or hex me again for even bothering him. Harry should just flounder along on his own. I just thought -- silly me –" She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I just thought that maybe this time, if we got the information in time, we could avoid someone else being hurt. Remember in second year, with the basilisk? If I'd found that page from the encyclopedia one day earlier, maybe no one else would have been Petrified, and Ginny might not have been kidnapped. In third year, if we'd found out the truth about Sirius and Pettigrew just a couple of days earlier, the entire thing with the Shrieking Shack, you getting attacked, and the Dementors nearly sucking Harry's soul out, might never have happened. If we let Harry go about this on his own, who knows what disasters might happen because he didn't find out what Horcruxes were until it was too late? But never mind now. We'll just sit back and wait for it all to happen." She stood up and swung her bag up over her shoulder.

Ron looked up at her in surprise. "Hey, I never said I wouldn't come."

+000+000+

Snape was on his way back to the dungeons after having had another session with the Headmaster. There was nothing new to report, really. Dumbledore had nattered on about recompense, souls, and forgiveness. Snape had listened with half an ear, if that, making noncommittal grunting sounds at appropriate intervals whilst checking the progress of the Curse. It didn't really matter anymore. What was done, was done.

He stopped short, surprised to see Draco Malfoy exiting the Slytherin common room. He'd made sure the whelp would be too occupied that evening to do any more mischief. "Just where do you think you're going, Mr Malfoy?" Snape asked, glowering.

"Out," Draco answered peevishly and attempted to slide past his Head of House.

Snape stepped neatly in his path and scowled down at the boy. Although it looked like Draco had put on another inch over the holidays, Snape still had a good half a head on him. "I believe I assigned you to tutor Mr Harper for his O.W.L."

"Zabini's doing it," Draco answered shortly.

Snape's scowl deepened. "I assigned you." He was having to be ever more creative in finding ways to keep Draco too occupied to make much progress on his plans to murder the Headmaster.

"You told me to see to it that Harper passes his Potions O.W.L., because his father told you to see to it. You delegated; I've delegated."

Snape looked around quickly to assure their privacy, then hissed in a low voice, "Don't play games with this, Draco. You know who Harper's father is, what position he holds. You don't simply turn over one of the Dark Lord's retainers to the likes of Zabini." Draco's mouth opened, an argument imminent, but Snape smoothly countered, "Oh, he may be adequate at Potions; better than you, I shouldn't doubt, especially given your appalling lack of application to your studies this term. But he is not someone whom his father would consider a good influence, if you get my meaning. These things should stay in the family."

Draco tossed his lank white-blond hair out of his face. "What do you think the Dark Lord would consider more important? Coaching the son of one of his lesser followers into a miserable passing mark on a meaningless test that he won't need anyway once we're in power, or completing the task which he assigned to me personally? What do you think he'll say when he asks me why I haven't done what he wanted, and I have to answer, 'Sorry, but Snape here had me doing fifth-year Potions in my spare time. I simply couldn't find the time to get around to it. Maybe next year.'"

"You will refrain from addressing me with such cheek!" Snape thundered.

"What will you do?" Draco asked with a sneer. "Give me detention? It won't change my answer. It'll just be detention that prevented me from completing my assignment, instead of tutoring. Are you literally trying to get me killed? You swore to my mother that you'd help me. Then let me get on with it!" Draco attempted to storm past Snape, but Snape reached out and grabbed him by the arm and leaned so close that their noses nearly touched.

"I swore to your mother that I would protect you, and that is exactly what I am doing! At the same time, I am trying to make sure that you have a life worth living after you complete your task. You will need friends in certain places, N.E.W.T.s… "

Draco wrenched his arm away.

"All of that doesn't matter if I don't do it! He'll kill me! You know he will!" He seemed on the verge of crying.

The apparent proximity of tears caused Snape to back off slightly. He answered in a slightly less urgent tone, "I do not know that. Your father failed to retrieve the Prophecy, and he is still among us."

"I can't take that chance. Please. Let me go." He nodded in the direction of the staircase he had been heading for.

Snape pressed his lips together. There was one more thing that Dumbledore had pressed him to ensure was done. Not that Snape believed all that nonsense about the soul magic, but at least it would stop Dumbledore from hounding him about it. "All right. Under one condition."

"What is it?"

"You remember the fund for Miss Ploppe that we discussed."

"It's already done," Draco answered quickly, eagerly even. "Disguised as an inheritance from a distant relative." He looked at Snape expectantly.

Snape exhaled through his nose. Did he expect praise? Praise for covering up what might well have been the biggest mistake of his young life? But at least it was done, whatever good it might do. "Very well then. Go." Snape inclined his head slightly to the side and stepped back so that Draco could scamper off.

Snape watched him go with a sour expression. He could follow him… but he couldn't make Draco any more suspicious. He was only in a position to help him if he remained above suspicion. From both ends.

Now in a thoroughly foul mood, Snape continued to his office. It had been a long and unpleasant day, and he thought he might have a glass of Old Ogden's.

However, rounding the corner, he saw that the day had just become considerably longer and more unpleasant. Two figures were lounging just outside his office. Granger and … yes, it was Weasley. He considered turning on his heel right then and there, but ground his teeth instead and kept going. He would not be cowed by the likes of them! Without acknowledging the two, he opened his door and went in, letting it fall shut behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know that one of them had caught it before it fell into the latch.

"Professor!" It was Granger who spoke. He could hear the tightness in her voice that revealed this was not going to be a pleasant conversation. He headed directly for the Ogden's in the storage cupboard.

"… told you this was stupid," Weasley mumbled. Granger shushed him impatiently.

"Professor, we need to talk to you," she announced. He could practically hear the set of her jaw.

"I do not recall hearing you knock, nor inviting you to enter," he stated flatly, pouring himself a generous dose. When would she give it up? Although he had to admit he was surprised that she had confided in Weasley… and even more so that Weasley was exhibiting such self-control, knowing now what he had done to Granger.

"It's about Horcruxes," she blurted out. The following silence rang in his ears.

Horcruxes? Nothing about Halloween, then? How refreshing… A vague memory of the word 'Horcrux' floated into his mind. It was something associated with the Dark Arts, to be sure. But beyond that…? Regardless. He had less than no interest in sharing his lack of knowledge with the two Gryffindors.

"Never heard of it," he finally responded, after having taken his seat at his desk but angling the chair such that he could only see the two students out of the corner of his eye. He noted with grim satisfaction that Hermione stood well back from the desk; in fact, she seemed to be shrinking away from everything in the room, including Weasley. Interesting.

"See?" Weasley said, but Granger clicked her tongue at him.

"Horcrux," she repeated, carefully. "It could be that I'm saying it wrong."

Snape swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Most likely you are, but that does not change my answer. Now if there is nothing you have to discuss which is pertinent to this year's syllabus…" He let the dismissal dangle in the air.

But Granger stood her ground. "At least tell us if it's a potion," she insisted.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "If I might remind you, I am no longer the Potions master. Not that I would expect you to keep such piddling details straight. Go and discuss it with Slughorn."

"He says he doesn't know what it is, either."

"Then you have obviously exhausted your possibilities," Snape said, allowing his irritation to creep into his voice. "Most likely you are working on the basis of false assumptions and there is no such thing."

"There must be! Dumbledore—"

"Hermione!" Ron cut in sharply. Frankly, Snape was surprised to hear him take that tone with her.

"What?" she asked, irritated.

"You're not supposed to tell about –" Snape couldn't hear the next word or words, but he saw Weasley lean over and whisper something in Hermione's ear. She batted him away.

"I'm not telling that part! Just stand there and keep quiet, like we agreed. Do you think you can do that? I know what I'm doing."

Snape smirked inwardly at her treatment of him. Clearly, she was the one wearing the pants in that relationship.

"As I was saying," Hermione continued, "Professor Dumbledore mentioned it once. It must be terribly important. I'm fairly certain I heard it right. I think it must be a potion… or possibly something else related to the Dark Arts. I feel certain that you must know of it. And I think if you do, you owe it to me to tell me."

Snape raised his eyebrows, but hid his face by leaning over his glass. So she was playing it that way, then. If this was what she was exacting as payment, he might just be willing to give it to her… if only to get her out of his hair once and for all. And because he had nothing of consequence to share with her, the term 'Horcrux' being truly nebulous to him. "I 'owe it to you'?" he queried quietly, entering into the game.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," Hermione hissed. Her fury was nearly palpable.

"You owe her one, Snape!" Ron called out, clearly unable to follow even the simplest directions. "After how you attacked her, you can do her the one favour and tell her what this 'Horcrux' thing is."

"Ron!" Hermione was beside herself. "He means in class," she explained quickly, almost plaintively. "That day when we were practicing the mind shield. That's all."

All suddenly became clear. Hermione had not in fact confessed everything to her companion. She had come here, hoping to hold something over his head in order to gain information about Horcruxes – for what purpose, he could only surmise that it had something to do with Harry. But in fact, he was the one holding all the cards at the moment. He had no information to share, and she did not wish to reveal her true reason for this feeble attempt at blackmail. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"That's all?" Ron screeched. "He should have been kicked out on his bony arse for that trick!"

"Ron!" Hermione stamped her foot; she was clearly losing control of the situation.

"Five points from Gryffindor for that remark, Weasley," Snape snarled. The boy fumed, but it had the desired effect of silencing him. For the moment.

Snape then addressed Hermione: "So. You believe that actions taken in the course of a … how shall we say … an object lesson … entitle you to some favor on my part."

Hermione was clearly undergoing an internal struggle of just how much to own up to. Finally, she said, "I think so. It's not much for you. Just a few words."

How pathetic she was now, he thought. Begging for a scrap from his table. When by all rights – or so Dumbledore said – he was the one who should be begging from her. It was truly twisted, how these things played out. He let his eye run over her. She was thin, thinner than he had her in memory at any rate; her eyes were sunken and dark, her robes hung loose and baggy. He couldn't remember what it had felt like to sink himself into that body. He hadn't even been aware of the physical sensations at the time, he didn't think. He had been concentrating too hard on all the other players, on Voldemort and Draco and the hissing masks encircling the scene, ready to jump at any sign of weakness.

But he did remember the look in her eyes, the terror, how she had begged— He cut off that line of thought. He had been unable to acquiesce then. He could now. He recognized that this moment was about more than just the paltry snippet of information. It was about her demanding something back from him. She must think this a difficult thing for him to give, a fair trade somehow. How ironic.

"A few words, you say," he repeated. "Yet they are of such import to you."

"To you, too, or why is it such a big secret? Why won't you or Professor Slughorn tell us? Are you afraid you'll be putting a weapon into our hands?"

"If I were, it would only be because I would be trying to protect you from your own foolishness."

"You protect us? That's a laugh!" Ron simply could not keep silent.

Hermione didn't even bother shushing him, and Snape did not bother responding. The two of them held each other's gaze for a moment, and a kind of understanding passed between them.

Snape nodded slowly. "Very well. I will tell you what I know – although I warn you, you may be disappointed. In return, you will consider any debt you feel I owe you to have been repaid."

Hermione swallowed. Snape found that he was clenching his glass tensely in anticipation of her answer. Finally, she nodded, once. "Fine."

Snape leaned back. "Horcrux." He frowned and looked into his glass again. "I have heard the term – or read it, more accurately. It is magic of the Darkest Art." He looked back at Hermione. "An object. Enchanted." He shrugged, now slightly uncomfortable that he didn't have more to offer. "That is all."

Hermione looked hurt. "That's all?"

"He's lying!" Ron cried. "He's lying! He tricked us! He knows more than that!"

Hermione looked frustrated. "But that can't be all! An object? What kind of object? What does it do? Is it a weapon?"

"I warned you that you might be disappointed. I can speculate that it has something to do with control over life and death – that is the general aim of the Dark Arts. It most likely involves a draining of the life force in some fashion – blood, aging, that sort of thing, either as the end in itself, or as the means to achieve some other end. It is an ancient magic, thought of before ethics committees and human rights. It was born of a time when life was cheap, especially when it wasn't one's own." Snape grunted out an abbreviated, humorless laugh.

"So it's not a potion… you're sure?" Hermione asked.

"There may be a potion involved in its creation, or in its use. My feeling is that the main focus is more than just a potion, however."

"Can you at least tell us where we can find out more?"

"No. I myself do not recall the specific book in which the Horcrux was mentioned, but even if I did, there won't be anything more than what I've told you; less, even, as much of what I have just said is speculation on my part."

"It wouldn't be 'Magick Most Evile', would it?"

Snape's eyes widened. "How did you –" Then he shook his head. "Never mind." Of course she would have her ways of getting her hands on anything in the Restricted Section, and then some. It wouldn't even surprise him if Dumbledore himself had found some way for the material to wander into her possession. "As I said, I do not recall the specific book. Now I think you've gotten what you came for." He flicked his fingers at the two of them and turned away again, this time closing his eyes and willing them to simply leave.

There was silence for a matter of seconds, and then Weasley whispered, "Come on, then," and there were the sounds of shuffling footsteps. A door opened and closed, and Snape felt a brief puff of cool air move across his cheek. Only then did he look around. The room was empty. He drained his glass. "Nox," he said, and sat there in the dark for a long time.

+000+000+


	19. Chapter 19: Another Death Eater Meeting

xxxxxx

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 19**

**Another Death Eater Meeting**

Snape had a dinner invitation for that evening. It was an invitation he could not refuse, although he would have dearly loved to.

He waved his wand at his cravat to make it knot itself – ridiculous frippery – and scowled when the mirror suggested he might want to try a purple one rather than 'that same old dreary black'.

He was already five minutes late for meeting Draco, but he thought it would do the boy good to wait. Show him who was in charge, after all. The two of them would leave together much as they had on Halloween night, but this time there was no need to sneak out under cover of darkness – and there were extra protections in place to ensure that no one was able to sneak in at the same time.

It being Narcissa's birthday, as a special concession to the son of a former Hogwarts governor (Lucius not being entirely without allies on the board), Draco had special permission to leave the grounds for the evening, with the understanding that he be closely supervised by his Head of House and that he return by midnight. Snape had not been given a say in the matter, and his cooperation had been taken for granted. Well, here he was, after all.

"You're late." Draco, wearing dress robes, was waiting on the steps outside the castle. The obviously expensive clothing did nothing to conceal his pasty complexion or anxious expression.

Snape breezed past the boy without a word, but did allow himself to shoot a very minor stinging hex in his direction. He smirked at Draco's cry of protest, and noted with satisfaction that there were no further reproaches forthcoming.

When they arrived at the manor, Narcissa made a great show of showering Draco with kisses and exclaiming over the present he had brought, but one thing seemed to be uppermost in her mind.

"Draco," she pleaded, searching his face hungrily. "Tell me you have completed the task you were set!"

Draco shook his head and looked down.

"But Draco! You must!" She then implored Snape, "You were to see to it that he completed it! What is taking so long? Every day that it goes undone is one day more on which my son could die!"

"Narcissa, really," Snape said with slight disgust. "You are being much too melodramatic. It is in no one's interest, especially our Master's, to see Draco dead. He is grooming him to take his rightful place in the ranks. This is a test of his mettle, nothing more. He will succeed, never fear. A thing like this cannot be rushed. One must strike when, and only when, the iron is hot. It is merely lukewarm. The moment will come" –_sooner than I should like,_ Snape added to himself— "but until then, difficult as it may be, you must exercise patience."

"Cissy! What are you doing out here in the hall?" Bellatrix Lestrange emerged from a door on the left, holding a tall glass halfway filled with a luminous blue drink. From her unsteady gait, Snape thought it probably wasn't her first drink of the evening.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Draco. "Nephew!" she exclaimed, rushing over to press his head to her bosom. Draco allowed the procedure, mumbling a half-hearted greeting and forcing a wretched smile to his lips. "What a dutiful son you are," she gushed, "coming all the way from Hogwarts to wish Mummy a happy birthday! And what have you brought with you?" She stared at Snape in wide-eyed mock surprise. "A playmate? For yourself or for Mummy? Or for me?" She giggled dangerously at her joke.

"Bella, please," Narcissa hissed. "Wouldn't you like another drink?"

"No, I wouldn't," she replied, sounding suddenly much more sober than Snape had thought at first. "I don't half like the one I've got." She thrust it toward Snape. "Fetch me another." It was an order, not a coquettish request.

Snape gladly took the glass, relieved at the ready excuse to leave the family scene. Narcissa's affection for her son was a bit too much for him to take at times. He probably should have stayed and argued Draco's case against Bellatrix, but frankly, her entire act was beginning to wear on him. Of course she would proceed to put the fear of hellfire into him and Narcissa because of the unfinished task, but Snape was sure that Bellatrix wouldn't actually do anything without Voldemort's express instructions, meaning that Draco was safe until Dumbledore was dead.

The reception room was populated by a sparse crowd of perhaps a couple of dozen people. Snape quickly ascertained that they were in the main Death Eaters (without their regalia, of course) and their spouses, although there were some others – Madam Zabini in her gold turban caught his eye immediately – who were unallied: purebloods who were probably either personal friends of Narcissa's or else hedging their bets against the current political regime.

The mood was subdued, despite the tasteful lights, festive decorations, and open bar serving only the best from the legendary Malfoy reserves, which Snape did not immediately approach. It was clear that Bellatrix had meant for him to leave them and not to return. He was about to deposit the half-full glass behind a potted palm when he decided it was a good prop to keep people at bay. No one would ask him if he would like a drink as long as he was already holding one. He found himself an out-of-the-way wall space and proceeded to wait out the tedium.

When Narcissa and Draco came back in, they both looked slightly shaken – Draco appeared downright green -- but it didn't take long for them both to recover and begin moving around the room, playing the host and hostess. Draco was certainly no Lucius, trotting after his mother and clearly ill at ease, but at least he was able to go through the motions.

Snape found the entire affair to be ill-considered. The man of the house was incarcerated, the heir apparent a nervous wreck. There was something to be said for keeping up appearances, but in Snape's opinion, Narcissa was pushing things a bit too far. Not that anyone had asked his opinion. She had probably wanted to thumb her nose at the Ministry and show that the Malfoys would not be cowed or intimidated, but the meagre turnout and Draco's mediocre showing would most likely be crowed over by many of the Malfoys' enemies.

They had been there for over an hour, Snape managing to scare off the few people present who were foolhardy enough to approach him, when a throbbing in his left arm caused an icy chill to spread throughout his body. Judging by the startled looks which many of the guests were giving each other, they had felt it, too. There was an ordered confusion as wizards began slipping out without so much as a word to the hostess, leaving their wives to smile more brightly than ever and continue chattering as if nothing were going on. Snape hastily sought Draco out, pushing past an elderly witch who was asking her companion, "Is dinner being served?"

He found him with his aunt and mother, both holding on to one of the youth's arms. Draco looked like he didn't know what to do, and his eyes showed relief at the sight of Snape.

"He has to come, Cissa!" Bellatrix was hissing. "No matter what you're afraid of, disregarding a direct Summons _will_ result in punishment."

"Don't! Please, just say that he had to stay here, for the party," Narcissa pleaded. "It's my birthday."

Snape cringed at the childish tone in her voice. Narcissa's pleas were desperate and obviously unreasonable. He greatly disliked having to take sides between the sisters, but it was clear what had to be done.

"Draco, come," he said imperiously as soon as he was within earshot. "Your mother can make your excuses for you." He levelled a stern look at Narcissa.

She turned her appeals to him, her blue eyes large and moist. "Severus, you know what will happen. He isn't ready yet, you said so yourself."

"Bellatrix is right," Snape said tonelessly. "He cannot stay here. The only excuse would be if he were dead. So unless you wish me to bring that circumstance to pass, you will release him and let him come with us."

Narcissa's grip on Draco's arm faltered just enough at Snape's awful words for Bellatrix to be able to wrench him away. Narcissa immediately launched herself toward them. "No!" she cried. "Take me with you, then."

"Why, baby sister, are you saying you want to _join_ us?" Bellatrix's eyes flashed with greed and surprise. She had always held it against Narcissa that she had never been Marked.

Narcissa hesitated. "No, I…" Her gaze flickered between Snape and Bellatrix. "Just take me with you. So I can keep an eye on him. I've been there before. With Lucius. He won't mind me." She sounded more certain than she really was.

"How dare you surmise what is in the Dark Lord's mind!" Bellatrix screeched, drawing shocked stares from the remaining guests.

Snape grimly herded the three through the nearest door, which happened to lead into a humidor. The smell of tobacco was sharp and thick, mixed with sweet and smoky undertones.

"Now," he said rapidly, having made sure that the door was firmly closed, "there is no time left for argument. In the interest of efficiency, I will bring you along," he told Narcissa. "But be warned, your presence will do nothing to help Draco. If you wish to be witness to his fate, so be it. But you will not be allowed to do anything more."

"Thank you," Narcissa whispered, and clutched his arm in preparation for the Apparition. With a curt nod, he signalled that Draco should go ahead. The young man, who had remained silent throughout the discussion, looked peaked and nearly transparent. He swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut, turned on his heel, and disappeared with a soft popping sound.

In a moment, two more pops followed in quick succession, and the smoking room was empty again.

+000+000+

Hermione couldn't help thinking that she'd made a rather poor deal with Snape. The paltry snippet of information would do Harry no good – she wasn't even sure whether she would tell him about the visit, so foolish did she feel about it -- and it meant that Slughorn must indeed know something that no one else did, although how he had come upon his information was a complete mystery.

And she had all but sold her soul for that bit of nothing. She couldn't explain why, but she believed that he was telling the truth. She had agreed to his terms, effectively releasing him from any further obligation toward her. Not that he had had any obligation in the first place, not really. Morally, perhaps, but not legally, not as long as she didn't pursue a case against him, and not magically, either, not even something along the lines of the wizard's debt which was incurred when one wizard saved the life of another. And moral obligations were something which Hermione felt sure that Snape found utterly laughable.

Why had he even offered it to her, then? He could have simply refused to tell them anything. Why had he felt the need to be released from obligation to her? Could it be… but that was ridiculous, of course. Could it be that he felt... guilty? Did he simply want to assuage his own conscience by making a token repayment? It was completely unfair and insufficient, of course, but to his twisted mind, it might seem just.

Hermione unhappily pushed her textbook away. She couldn't concentrate on her homework. She had been to see Theresa, the Muggle therapist, that morning, having re-started her visits following a two-week break over the holidays, but, as with her schoolwork, her heart simply wasn't in it; she only did it (both the schoolwork and the therapy sessions) because there was a system in place that it was easier to go along with than to buck.

When she spoke to Theresa, they hardly ever discussed the attack any more. Hermione would tell about life at Hogwarts (a Muggle-ified version, to be sure), sometimes about her family, or what her plans were for the future.

She supposed, thinking about it now, that Theresa might have guided her to such topics intentionally. Hogwarts because she needed to deal with her life now, not dwell on past events; her family because they were truly the only ones who would always be there for her (Ron and Harry having proven that they were unreliable friends); and her future plans because making new goals was important for her self-esteem.

She needed to feel that she was worth something, that she could achieve something. That she was not simply a rape survivor, but that she could be a teacher, a Healer, an author. Goals were important. She had the power to make changes and have an effect on others, hopefully in a positive manner.

It all sounded good in theory, but that wasn't how she felt at all. Far from moving past what had happened, she couldn't stop thinking of it; no, that wasn't exactly right. She never thought directly of what had happened at all. It was like a huge, gaping wound in her memory. She knew it was there, but avoided looking directly at it. Yet she worried at it, picked at its scabs, couldn't let it be.

It was also a nice theory about her parents being there for her. They were, of course, inasmuch as they knew what Hermione needed from them. But Hermione hadn't told them what had happened, so they weren't able to help her, show her that they still loved her, that she was still their little girl and the same person she had been before.

And as for the future, or any feelings of empowerment, those were just whispers in the wind. Hermione couldn't imagine what she wanted to do after Hogwarts, nor what good she could possibly do for anyone else. She couldn't even help herself.

Feeling slightly depressed and not wanting to think about it any more, Hermione swept her books and parchments into a pile and wandered back up to Gryffindor Tower.

Before stepping throught the portrait hole, she had to steel herself against the very probable scene of Ron and Lavender pawing each other on the couch by the fire. She mentally went over the most direct path she would need to take to get to the girls' staircase, then clenched her fists and recited the password.

To her relief, Ron and Lavender were nowhere in sight, but Harry was seated at the corner table, nearly hidden behind a large pile of books. This so surprised Hermione (since when did Harry do research, willingly, on his own?) that she detoured from her planned march up to bed to look over his shoulder.

At the sound of her approaching, Harry started and hastily flipped down the book he'd had propped open before him, effectively obscuring whatever it was he'd been working on. When he saw that it was Hermione, however, he relaxed and motioned for her to join him.

"What are you doing?" she asked as she slid into the chair catty-corner from him.

After making a quick check that no one else was listening in, he whispered, "I'm watching the Map," his green eyes large and serious behind his glasses. He lifted the book so that Hermione could see the Marauder's Map open and activated before him.

"Harry!" she scolded, likewise checking anxiously that no one was watching them. "What if someone sees and tells Professor McGonagall!"

"I'm being careful," he said, appearing slightly hurt at her lack of faith in him. "And I couldn't look at it up in my room anymore."

"Why not?"

Harry suddenly appeared uncomfortable. "Er… Too many people."

"And there aren't too many here?" Hermione indicated the half dozen or so students chatting and studying around the common room, then narrowed her eyes at Harry. "You mean that a certain someone has a visitor up there, don't you, and he wanted to be alone with her."

"No! That's not it at all. It's Dean. He's got a bunch of blokes up there with him talking about football. It was too crowded. I couldn't even sit on my own bed."

"Right. Look, why can't you just be straight with me? I don't care about Won-Won. Not a bit. He can have the entire Holyhead Harpies team in bed with him. He's got a good head start with the one harpy, anyway," she added viciously.

Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa. I don't want to be in the middle of this. You two need to talk to each other."

"Harry, I've tried. He's so defensive about everything, though, it's impossible."

"Really? You tried to talk to Ron?"

"Really." It was true, the two of them had briefly touched on Ron and Lavender's relationship when Hermione had approached Ron about going with her to Snape. "I told him I was happy for him, and that was that."

"So is everything back to normal between you two then?" Harry looked hopeful.

"Sure," Hermione agreed. "It's all back to normal."

"Great." Harry grinned broadly. "That's really great."

"Yeah, great," Hermione repeated, trying to sound as enthusiastic as Harry.

"All right, look at this then," Harry said, smoothing out the Map. "I've been tracking Malfoy."

Hermione scanned the Map for a dot labeled 'Draco Malfoy', but Harry shook his head. "He and Snape left the castle about an hour ago. They went out the front door. Where do you think they went?"

Hermione instantly knew where the two of them had gone. Another Death Eater gathering. A very uneasy feeling settled on her. "I'm not sure. What do you think?"

Harry snorted. "Probably out for some fancy dinner. He gets all the privileges."

Hermione forced a smile. "Yes, that must be it. They're probably sitting in some posh restaurant in Diagon Alley, coming up with more ways to steal points from Gryffindor."

"If I didn't know how much Dumbledore trusted Snape, I'd almost have guessed they'd gone to a Death Eater meeting."

Hermone let out an unnatural, high-pitched laugh. "That's ridiculous, Harry. Dumbledore would never let a Death Eater teach here." It was scary how she was able to parrot the party line so easily, knowing what she did now.

"I know, I said," Harry agreed. "Plus, Malfoy's gone off the Map plenty of other times when Snape was still sitting in his office. Those were the times he was probably meeting with the Death Eaters. If I could just see where he leaves from on those occasions. But it's always as if he disappears into thin air. It's almost as if he's found a way to Apparate out of the castle."

"You can't—" Hermione began automatically.

"—Apparate in or out of Hogwarts, I know, Hermione," Harry said with a chuckle. "Anyway, one of these times, I'm going to catch him. I guess it won't be tonight, though."

"Harry, speaking of Snape," Hermione dived in. She might as well get it over with. "I asked him about the Horcruxes."

Harry's eyes became round with shock. "You what? Dumbledore told me not to talk to anyone else about it, other than you two!"

"I know, Harry," Hermione said, trying to placate him, "but look, you didn't. You followed instructions. But I got to thinking, maybe Dumbledore told you that you could tell me and Ron because he thought that we could help you get the information. And I was also thinking, maybe Horcruxes are something to do with potions. After all, Slughorn teaches Potions. And so did Snape. But don't worry. He didn't know anything." Hermione sighed. "Whatever it is, it looks like you'll have to get it from Slughorn himself."

"Oh. Well, thanks for trying anyway. But I reckon if Snape did know anything, he'd tell Dumbledore. Slughorn's trickier. He definitely knows something, and he's trying to hide it from Dumbledore on purpose. I'm just going to have to figure out how to out-trick him."

"I'm sure you will, Harry. Things always have a way of working out for you."

+000+000+

"Enough!" Voldemort pounded on the table where he was standing, causing the witches and wizards seated around it to jump and fall into an uneasy silence, their arguments dying in their throats. "Time is getting short. I have been made to wait too long, been delayed too often, both by incompetent idiots such as Quirrell and by my oh-so-illustrious adversary. Do not imagine for a moment that I will tolerate any discussion or dissension from amongst you, my most devoted followers. I will not be denied – we shall not be denied – what is rightfully ours." As he stared around the table, there were few who were able to meet his unnatural, slit-eyed gaze. Severus Snape was one of them. Voldemort paused at him briefly, his expression inscrutable, then continued, "If our man in the Ministry says that Thicknesse is the man for the job, then who are the rest of you to argue?" He swept his arm theatrically across his body.

"But my Lord—" a balding wizard with deeply lined features began.

In an instant, Voldemort had made a slashing motion with his wand. "I said, enough, Rookwood!"

The wizard cried out and flew backwards, as if backhanded by a giant hand. Snape sensed, rather than saw, Draco cringe in his chair beside him. Narcissa had been relegated to a seat somewhere in the shadows behind them, where she had, Snape had to admit, been doing an admirable job of keeping silent.

"Everything must be in place as soon as possible. Once the dominos begin to fall, there must not be any gaps. Which brings us to young Mr Malfoy." Voldemort leaned his head to one side in a gesture disturbingly reminiscent of Bellatrix and regarded Draco, who was gripping the arms of his chair tightly.

Snape heard Narcissa shift behind him.

"My Lord?" Draco's voice was barely audible. He cleared his throat and repeated himself, slightly louder but no more confident: "My Lord?"

Voldemort pushed his chair back and walked slowly around to where Draco was sitting. Snape kept his eyes straight ahead.

"Draco…" Voldemort whispered, leaning down to speak directly in the young man's ear. It was surely no coincidence that he had chosen the side on which Snape sat.

"Yes, my Lord," Draco whispered back.

Voldemort ran a finger along the side of Draco's neck. "You are the key to this entire operation. We are all waiting for a signal from you to proceed. Even I, Lord Voldemort, await your move. Do you think that fair? Do you think it fair that the only thing standing between myself and my rightful inheritance is you?"

Draco shook his head.

"What's that?" Voldemort prompted.

"No, my Lord," Draco said as steadily as he could.

"I am very glad to hear you say that," Voldemort purred. "Because it means that you are ready. Are you ready, Draco?" He stayed there, hovering between Snape and Draco, breathing softly into the young wizard's ear.

"No, my Lord," Draco said again.

"No?" Voldemort sounded slightly disappointed as he straightened up. "That is a pity. Crucio."

Draco's face contorted as he twisted and turned, emitting a strangled sound from his throat.

Snape kept his poker face, silently willing Narcissa to remain silent. He could see Bellatrix grinning on the other side of the table.

After a very few seconds, Voldemort released the spell. Draco sank into himself, breathing hard.

Voldemort spoke again, putting on a show of exaggerated patience. "When, Draco? When will you deign to comply with my wishes?"

"As soon as possible, my Lord," he gasped.

"I believe I have made it clear that we do not have the luxury of time." Voldemort's voice was no longer gentle. "The Order is making plans, too. Events will come to a head soon, one way or the other. We must be the ones to take the initiative. And so I ask you again: Will it be done tonight? Tomorrow? This week? It is a small thing. Why, Dolohov could do it if given the opportunity, couldn't you, Dolohov?"

"In a second, my Lord," he said, watching Draco closely. "Tell me what it is that you need."

Voldemort chuckled, a chilling sound. "Ah, that's a little secret between Malfoy and myself. It wouldn't do to have word getting out, now would it? Hm? It is simple and yet, I admit, delicate. Even so, it has taken far longer than I imagined. I am beginning to wonder if you have not, in fact, failed. Perhaps it would be the kindest thing at this point to assign the task to someone else and put you out of your misery." He held his wand up behind Draco's head, poised like a cobra about to strike.

"No!" Narcissa screamed out and flung herself at Voldemort's feet.

Bellatrix's countenance took on a look of outrage and she jumped out of her chair and screamed, "Incarcerous!"

Black, writhing ropes flew out of her wand and whipped themselves around Narcissa, who cried out.

Voldemort laughed. "Very good, Bella, very good. But I do not think she meant to harm me." He stepped back to admire Narcissa, pitiful and weeping on the floor. "Did you, Madam Malfoy?"

"Please," she whimpered, "please don't hurt my son. He's just a boy. Take me instead to atone for my husband's failure."

"No! Mother!" Draco protested, horrified. "I will do it," he said, speaking to Voldemort. "I'm working on another plan now. Every spare moment I have…" He risked a glance at Snape, but apparently decided it wasn't wise to bring up tutoring sessions at that particular time.

Voldemort sneered coldly down at Narcissa. "As touching as the gesture is, I'm afraid that you simply don't mean as much to Lucius as your son does. If he succeeds, he will rightly take over his father's place in my ranks. If not…" He shrugged. "Lucius will feel the cost of failure a hundred-fold. Which just goes to show…" he addressed the entire group. "Love is a weakness that has no place here! It is useful only in bringing down our enemies. Do not let that old fool Dumbledore tell you any differently!"

Bellatrix's face glowed with rapture and she hung on Voldemort's every word as he continued his tirade.

Snape listened with half an ear; it wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, and he happened to agree wholeheartedly with the basic sentiment: Love was a weakness. He had loved Lily once. He still did. Pathetic, really. Without that love, he would have turned his back on the Potter brat long ago, as well as on this entire stinking pack that he had been forced to associate with for the sake of maintaining his cover. What would Lily think of him now? Would she admire him? Hardly. He had become a criminal in the name of that love.

It was true that he had joined the Death Eaters of his own free volition, knowing what they stood for, and in order to prove his loyalty to their ideals had revealed to them what he knew of the Prophecy. But had that been an evil thing to do? He had never held much store in divination, soothsaying, or fortune-telling anyway. Reporting the contents of that bubble-brained Trelawney's ramblings had seemed an easy way to get into the good graces of the Dark Lord. It hadn't directly harmed anyone. When he'd realized that the Potters were being targeted, he'd warned Dumbledore and tried to get out, but Dumbledore had sent him back, and then he was stuck.

He had had to go along with the Death Eaters' sick plans, in order to hold out a hope of keeping Lily safe. When he'd watched as entire families were wiped out, his only thought had been that in doing so, he was guaranteeing the Order an inside line on any planned strikes against the Potters. He couldn't send a warning every time without arousing suspicions and jeopardizing his position, and so he had had to sit by and allow innocent people to be tortured and murdered.

And then, when the time finally came, he had rushed to tell Dumbledore, certain that his gambit had finally paid off, but the Headmaster assured him that Lily and her family were safe, protected by the Fidelius Charm. No one had known of Pettigrew's treachery, of course. But it didn't matter. It had all been for naught. Any hope of there being a meaning behind the evil he'd been party to had come to an abrupt end with the triple casting of the Killing Curse that Halloween night.

After Lily's death, he'd been racked with guilt and remorse, and would have killed himself, too, had Dumbledore not convinced him to stay and help protect Lily's son when he arrived at Hogwarts. He hadn't expected the boy to look so much like James. That had made it hard, and the constant reminder of his youthful follies only fueled his dislike of the boy, but he had made a promise, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had imagined that Lily was looking down on him, or that he would meet her ghost one day, and he wanted to have something to show her, something that would erase her memory of all his past mistakes.

But as it happened, that romantic idea had faded rather quickly, even if his feelings for Lily hadn't, and all he had been left with was a grudging sense of duty. He knew that he had been unnecessarily hard on Harry, even mistreated him. And yet he had kept his word, and he had kept him from harm, several times.

It wasn't enough, though. The hurt in Lily's eyes when she had broken off their friendship would forever haunt him and stand proxy for the accusations of all of his later victims.

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Dumbledore was pleased to hear Snape's report of the meeting.

"It is remarkable, the power of a mother's love," he mentioned, watching as Snape prepared the familiar treatment for his blackened hand.

Snape's lips curved down into a frown. "It was a stupid, senseless display of sentimentality. The Dark Lord did not want to kill Draco, it is as simple as that."

"Hm… You are probably correct. I do not believe he learned anything from Lily's example."

Snape stiffened at the mention of her name. How had Dumbledore known that Lily had been on his mind? "On the contrary," he replied. "He learned that Potter is a tough nut to crack. He cannot do away with him directly, yet he cannot rely on anyone else to do it for him. That is the crux of that blasted prophecy. Turn, please."

Dumbledore rotated his arm to give Snape access to the underside.

"That is why he is being so cautious," Snape continued as he examined the injury intently. "It is a good thing, as it gives us that much more time." He clicked his tongue, seeing the extent of the damage to the tissue.

Dumbledore regarded Severus kindly over his half-moon glasses. "My death will not change anything. You know that, don't you, Severus?"

"What do you mean?" Snape asked, irritated. "Of course it will change things. That is what he is planning on. Without your protection, he will have a free shot at Potter."

"Ah, so he believes. But he is mistaken. I am not mentioned in the prophecy. I am nothing in this battle. Tom has been distracted by what he perceives to be my power. It is nothing more than a sound-and-light show. The true power lies with Harry."

"Spare me the diatribe on love, if you please. I've had it already tonight." He rubbed a bit more firmly at Dumbledore's arm than was strictly necessary.

"I would not dream of insulting your sensibilities, Severus," Dumbledore said with a faint smile.

Snape worked in silence for a bit, then announced, grudgingly, "Draco has found a way to take care of the Ploppe girl."

"Has he? That is good news. Very good news indeed. You may pass on to him that she is in good health. I have heard that she is making plans to resume her Muggle schooling after the baby is born."

"Mm," Snape grunted noncomittally. He rather thought that Draco would prefer not to receive that little update.

"That just leaves you, then. Have you found a way to 'take care of', as you said, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired politely.

"She is not with child!" Snape snapped, pushing himself back in his seat. "She does not need any support. But yes, she has been 'taken care of'." He had the feeling that the trade he and Hermione had agreed would not be sufficient to placate Dumbledore, but then it wasn't any of the old man's business, really.

The Headmaster's face showed surprise. "Really? Please go on."

Snape kept his focus on Dumbledore's arm as he said, "She has agreed to release me from any obligation I might be under to her, in return for certain information which I delivered to her."

Dumbledore's surprise cleared. "That must have been quite some information," he said nonchalantly.

"I suppose it was, for her," Snape muttered.

"And for you? Did it cost you anything to give it?" he prodded, with an iron undertone to his gentleness.

"A great deal of patience at having to sit through her and Weasley's bumbling attempts at blackmail," Snape replied irritably.

Dumbledore dropped the pretense and allowed his tone to become severe. "But was it a fair trade? Do you feel that you have atoned for what she was put through? It is not the letter of the law that is important here. It is the idea behind it. The admission of wrongdoing and the attempt at repayment. She needs to forgive as much as you need forgiveness."

"I do not need her forgiveness! I am finished here." He stood abruptly and snatched up his materials from the table.

"You may not want her forgiveness, because it would mean owning up to your errors," Dumbledore said, his eyes now steely and hard. "You have made up to Lily for what happened. I believe you can consider any debt you might have owed her and James to have been repaid. But you are not finished yet. I will not allow you to go on with this blemish on your soul!" It was rare that Dumbledore raised his voice, but when he did, it sent a shiver through all who were present. Snape was no exception.

"You should have thought of that before you sent me back there! It—" He faltered at the stricken look on the old man's face. "—it doesn't matter," he muttered. "I will do what is necessary. …to protect Draco!" he clarified, seeing the renewed flash of surprise on Dumbledore's face as he apparently interpreted the statement to mean that Snape would attempt to make amends with Hermione. "And to do the task for him," he added darkly, both of them knowing what was meant.

"Severus—" Dumbledore reached out to grab Snape's elbow with his good hand in a supplicating gesture. "You don't hate me, do you? I'm afraid I may have pushed you too far. I saw such goodness in you, such a great capacity for love. Your feelings for Lily Evans were true and pure, even though she had chosen James Potter. I thought that could never be broken. But maybe it has been, through all the evil you have been forced to endure. Have I made a mistake? Please, tell me that I haven't. Tell me that there is still a corner of your heart that hasn't been completely corrupted."

Snape writhed in embarrassment at the question. He wasn't proud of his feelings for Lily. How many times he had wished them gone, to end the spiritual anguish they had put him through. The words of Voldemort still rang in his ears: Love is a weakness. And yet, it was true, he still harbored those feelings. Maybe he loved the memory of an image, rather than what she had really been, but it was still powerful enough to fill him with a welling of emotion whenever he needed to conjure a Patronus. So, yes.

"It is still there," he said gruffly, mainly because he knew that was what Dumbledore needed to hear.

"Then use it! I realize it is painful, but it _will_ give you peace in the end. What if it were Lily who had been violated? Would you not try to make amends, even as you have done all these many years? Hermione Granger is someone's daughter. She is someone's sweetheart. One day, she may be someone's mother. Would you have her life ruined by an act of a moment?"

"Her life is not ruined! She is not Lily Evans! She's alive! She escaped mental and physical injury, thanks to me! Look at the other girls! If I hadn't been there, she would have been as badly off as they, maybe even worse." Even as he defended himself, he knew that Dumbledore was right. But wasn't it enough already? He was only one man!

Dumbledore looked hurt. "Severus. No one is saying that you didn't do the best you could in the situation. You are both victims in this case. But I think you will agree that we can hardly expect Tom to see the error of his ways – more's the pity. I wish there had been another way to do this than to leave you under his thumb. I do, believe me," he pleaded. "You can't know the agony I've gone through over it – I knew that it would be difficult, but I suppose I never realized just how far you had been drawn in. The best we can hope for now is that once I'm gone, things will move quickly to Harry's advantage, and you will be free as well."

Snape couldn't look Dumbledore in the eye at that, knowing as he did that he would never be free.

"And looking forward to that eventuality, I implore you once again, free yourself of this burden."

"The only burden I have is that I am expected to save everyone from themselves!" Snape retorted. "I have done what is necessary to move your plans forward. Let that be enough!"

The slamming of the door echoed off of the bare stone of the small room's walls and left the Headmaster with a ringing in his ears.

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	20. Chapter 20: Relative Safety

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 20: ****Relative Safety**

_**Invisibility Pox Ravages Wizarding Population**_

_**Authorities Deny Danger to Public**_

_SHROPSHIRE– It appears that the increasingly virulent Invisibility Pox has claimed another victim. Artemisia Belby, 42, simply faded from sight Thursday last, according to family and neighbors._

_'I saw her bringing in the shopping that morning. A short while later, I heard a scream, but when I pulled back the curtain to check, I didn't see anything,' reports Nasalia Snooper, 93, who lives across the street from the Belbys. It is a well-known fact that the shock of suddenly finding oneself invisible is usually accompanied by loud vocalizations of surprise._

_The victim's husband, Damocles Belby, 51, commented, 'It all happened so suddenly… I'm sorry, I can't say any more. I just pray she's still alive. Tell them I'm working on the potion, but please, just don't hurt her!' Good advice, which the Quibbler's editors urge all its readers to take to heart. Invisibility Pox sufferers may be on that chair you're about to sit on, in that Floo you're about to step into, or even within range of that spell you're about to cast. Call out a warning before doing any of these things – your invisible friends will thank you._

_Unfortunately, not everyone takes such care, and the mortality rate of this dread disease is disturbingly high. Many victims meet with tragic and violent ends, most likely due to accidents occuring whilst they are invisible. In many cases, the main symptom extends past the victims' demise, their bodies forever relegated to a state of invisibility._

_It is heartening to hear that Belby, a respected potions expert, is working on a treatment, although he was unwilling to make a prognosis about when it would be ready to test._

_This is just the latest in a rash of cases that have struck the wizarding community over the last year. Ministry of Magic officials deny that it has anything to do with last May's incident at Ministry headquarters in London, in which Quibbler informants insist that members of the public were exposed to several extremely toxic magico-biological agents, including the highly infectious Invisibility Pox virus._

_'That's absolutely ludicrous,' responded Ministry spokesman Percy Weasley, 21. 'There's no such thing as Invisibility Pox.' Yet Weasley was unwilling to suggest another explanation for this or any other of the spate of recent disappearances, and quickly ended the interview._

_Quibbler readers will be used to such blatant and obvious attempts at covering up official blunders that lead to the endangerment of the health and safety of the public at large. Invisibility Pox is highly contagious, as is documented by the fact that it often strikes several members of the same family in quick succession, or even simultaneously._

_The large number of otherwise unexplained, sudden disappearances of respected members of the wizarding community demands action by our government officials. How much longer will we allow this to go on? Ask your Healer about the possibility of vaccination now, before this dread disease strikes in your own family!_

--

Hermione crumpled the Quibbler and left it on the breakfast table. She walked out of the Great Hall, feeling more unsafe than she had in many weeks. The story about Invisibility Pox was nonsense, of course, but if it kept people in their houses or made them question the Ministry's priorities, it might have a positive effect after all.

The truth was, it hit Hermione, there were still Death Eaters out there, snatching those who disagreed with them or whom they found to be undesirable. She wondered which category Mrs Belby fell into. Was she Muggle-born? An Order member? Or had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Hermione realized that she'd been lulled into a false sense of security, things having been relatively quiet over the past two months.

But that was just what she couldn't afford to do. There were at least two bona fide Death Eaters walking the halls of Hogwarts, maybe – she thought with a shiver – more. If Voldemort had been able to recruit Draco Malfoy, why not a couple of seventh years as well? Just because they had been lying low recently didn't make them any less of a threat. Harry's obsessive observation of the Map proved that Snape and Malfoy were leaving the castle from time to time, and it wasn't for fancy dinner parties, that much was clear.

Hermione found herself stealing glances at every student she passed. Why, there could even be Death Eaters in Gryffindor House. Peter Pettigrew had been one, and he'd been in Gryffindor. It was always the quiet ones, the ones you'd never expect. Like Neville. No, that was utterly ridiculous. But then again, Harry's parents must have thought it utterly ridiculous to even consider Pettigrew being disloyal. And what about McLaggen? He was unpleasant enough. In fact, come to think of it, why stop at just one or two? If she were Voldemort, she'd try to get as many recruits on her side as possible.

Hermione felt a rising panic. She had to force herself to think logically. She was being silly, she told herself firmly. Of course Neville was no Death Eater, nor was McLaggen. Draco and Snape, and any other sleeper agents, would never stage an attack in broad daylight, not with Dumbledore at the helm of the school. She might not agree with his methods, but she still trusted in his authority and skill. He had fought Voldemort himself at the Department of Mysteries, according to Harry, and had beaten him handily. Draco was no match for Albus Dumbledore, and nor was Snape. Dumbledore knew everything that went on in the castle. That's probably why he allowed Snape to stay: so that he could keep close tabs on him. It was true that somehow, Death Eaters had been able to kidnap herself and three other students, but they hadn't actually been hurt until they'd been off the grounds. As long as she stayed on the grounds, preferably inside the castle walls themselves, she should be all right. This line of thinking calmed her somewhat, but the disturbing feeling of insecurity still lingered.

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She had Potions that morning. Slughorn was less talkative than usual, more jittery. Was it her imagination, or was he trying to avoid Harry? There hadn't been a meeting of the Slug Club in ages, either. Not since the Christmas Party, in fact. Not that she was mourning it. It was bad enough that she had to see McLaggen in the Gryffindor common room and at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. She didn't particularly fancy being forced into a social situation with him again.

She managed to partner with Anthony Goldstein, his usual partner Terry Boot having taken ill that morning. She liked working with Anthony. He did have bad breath, but luckily he didn't talk very much, and he was very exacting. As they worked, she thought about his House, Ravenclaw. The Sorting Hat had said she would do well in Ravenclaw as well. Maybe if she'd ended up there, all these things would never have happened to her. She certainly wouldn't have been thrown together with Harry and Ron as often as she had been. But then, she considered, Lisa had been – no, she corrected herself, was still – in Ravenclaw, and she'd still been taken last October.

The constellation of Ravenclaw, Slug Club, and the recent Quibbler article coalesced into another connection in her mind: Belby. A student named Belby had been among the lucky few summoned by Slughorn to his train compartment that first day of term. Interestingly, he hadn't been included in later invitations, but Hermione still recalled him: an awkward, pimply underclassman, clearly unhappy with the attention. She couldn't say that she'd blamed him, and hadn't given it another thought when she hadn't seen him again.

"Anthony…?" she began, carefully adding three drops of lavender essence to their cauldron.

Anthony, to his credit, did not break rhythm but continued to stir at a pace of exactly one revolution per second.

"Do you know a boy named Belby?" Hermione continued. "I don't know his first name. I think he's in Ravenclaw. An underclassman, second or third year?"

Anthony frowned. "Yeah, think so. Marcus, right? Brown hair, skinny?"

Hermione nodded. "That sounds like him. Is he still around?"

"How long do I have to keep stirring?"

Hermione checked her textbook. "It says here 'continue stirring until the mixture turns clear'. It doesn't look clear to me yet. You?"

Anthony peered into the dark cauldron. "Not yet." He settled back into his routine. "What did you mean about Belby?"

"Whether he's still around. He hasn't withdrawn from school, has he?"

"Why would he withdraw from school?"

"Remember Hannah Abbott? When her mother was killed earlier this year, she withdrew."

Anthony looked at Hermione in alarm, his stirring arm faltering momentarily. "Was someone in Belby's family killed?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "I saw a notice about a woman named Belby having gone missing, but it could be another family."

Anthony looked worried, answering, "No, far as I know Marcus is still here. Merlin, I hope it isn't his mum. He's a nice kid. Do they think it was Death Eaters?"

"It didn't say," Hermione responded evasively, not wanting to get into a discussion of Invisibility Pox, "but it must be."

"Oh, shite, look," Anthony exclaimed as he happened to look down into the cauldron, "the potion's clear already!"

Hermione quickly readied a vial for a sample, which looked perfectly acceptable to her, but once again was beaten out by Harry's perfect result.

"The Prince said to stir exactly 99 times," he informed her with an apologetic shrug afterwards.

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"Severus, a word, please."

Snape waited until the other House Heads had filed out. He dreaded these little 'words' which Dumbledore always seemed to insist on. Invariably, they had something to do with Potter, Malfoy, Voldemort, or some combination of the three. The headmaster's first words did nothing to break the pattern.

"I would like you to keep a close eye on Draco Malfoy in the next few days," Dumbledore began, once he was assured of privacy.

"That will be a refreshing change of pace," Snape remarked dryly.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I have the feeling that he may try to take advantage of the Apparition lessons."

"You mean because the anti-Apparition enchantment will be lifted in the Great Hall. Of course, he will not know that until the morning of the lesson."

"Not officially, of course, but the other Heads are informed of the fact as well, as of today. I saw no reason to plead for secrecy, and so word is bound to get out. Aside from that, Mr Malfoy may well deduce it for himself. The boy is not stupid."

"Your word in Merlin's ear."

"Tom could of course see this as a prime opportunity to get into Hogwarts."

"Don't call him that," Snape hissed through gritted teeth.

"It is his name," Dumbledore reminded him simply. "For me, he will always be Tom Riddle, a promising but deeply troubled young man."

Snape made a face. "It makes him sound harmless, like a jolly prankster."

"Oh, I would never underestimate him," Dumbledore said in all seriousness. "He is far from harmless. Which is why we cannot afford to let another Halloween happen. He cannot be given access to our students again. He would dearly love to send in a strike force, grab two or three, or more, of the nearest children, and spirit them away. This time, given another chance, I fear that they would not come back alive.

"Two of the original group of hand-picked targets will be there next week," Dumbledore continued. "Miss MacDermott and Miss Granger. He might be especially pleased to get his hands on them again and 'finish off the job', as it were. He was none too happy that word never got out of his Halloween attack. He would figure there would be no way for us to cover up two deaths, or more."

"You will know more of how his mind works than I," Snape began diplomatically, "but in all honesty, Headmaster, I feel that he has put what happened on Halloween out of his mind. It is true that things did not go the way he desired, but he has moved on to other plans."

"I give you right, up to a point," Dumbledore conceded. "He may not be planning to repeat his Halloween atrocities, but given the chance, I am sure he would capitalize on the opportunity to Apparate in and out of Hogwarts, following a scenario very much like the one I have sketched. His aim with that earlier attack was not simply to satisfy the lust for blood which some of his more barbaric followers clamour for; he was aiming to put Hogwarts out of business, in order to get Harry out into the open. If he can strike fear into the hearts of the wizarding population at large, so much the better."

"But as you've said, Apparition will only be possible within the Great Hall. The enchantments will remain intact over the surrounding walls and grounds."

"In theory, yes, but you know as well as I how creative minds may take advantage of small changes in defenses. I do not believe that it will be possible to enter, or leave, Hogwarts by Apparition during the lessons, but there is always the chance that I have erred. And even if it is not possible, it would be most inconvenient should Tom or some of his friends show up, expecting otherwise. I should be forced to stop them, you see, and I'm not entirely certain how this old body would hold up against another direct assault." He held up his weakened arm regretfully.

"If you are so worried about a breach, why then, if I may be so bold, are you allowing the Apparition lessons to be held at all?"

Dumbledore frowned. "It is difficult enough to be young in times like these. The students deserve as much of a semblance of normalcy as we can deliver. But more to the point: It may save their lives if they are able to Apparate away from the scene of an attack. Should Hogwarts' defences truly be breached, I would hope that this would enable as many students as possible to escape with their lives."

"If their reactions in Defense class are anything to go by, they are more likely to run around like chickens with their heads cut off," Snape grumbled.

Dumbledore chuckled. "That's why you're in there this year, Severus. You'll whip them into shape, I've no doubt."

Snape grunted, but it was clear that he was pleased by the praise.

"If you doubt your ability to hold off an attack, why not request a team of Aurors to assist with guarding the perimeter?"

"Absolutely not. The Auror Department is as leaky as my great-aunt Ethel's cauldron. I will personally see to the security," Dumbledore responded firmly.

"I will see what I can do about keeping Malfoy incommunicado. I will also try to impress upon him the futility of attempting to Apparate beyond the walls."

"Thank you, Severus. It won't be much longer, now."

+000+000+

That Saturday, Hermione awoke to a grumble of thunder. She was disoriented at first and not sure what the sound was that had broken into her dreams. A nebulous feeling of menace floated in the air, and she groped under her pillow for her wand, her disquiet increasing when she didn't feel its comforting hardness immediately. She threw her pillow aside and scrabbled in the bedclothes until she had the wand in her hand.

The next thunderclap sounded like it had detonated directly overhead, and caused her roommates to stir. Lavender buried her head under her pillow, groaning.

"Hermione? What are you doing?" Parvati asked, somewhat alarmed, having taken notice of Hermione's battle stance in her bed. Lavender peeped out, too, looking startled.

Hermione's heart was still beating wildly, but she lowered her wand now as reality gained the upper hand over her imagination. "I… thought I heard a noise," she faltered.

"That was just thunder," Lavender whined. "Can we go back to sleep now?"

"No, sleepy-head," Parvati teased, throwing her pillow at Lavender. "Today's the first Apparition lesson. Oh! Lav!" Parvati suddenly grew serious. "Remember what my horoscope said for today? 'Keep both feet on the ground'. Do you think that means I shouldn't try Apparating?"

"Wow! Good point," Lavender said earnestly. "Maybe not."

Hermione rolled her eyes as the two girls discussed whether they should go ask Professor Firenze for advice. The centaur had the odd years' classes that year, but that didn't stop Lavender and Parvati from finding every excuse to seek him out.

Instead of contributing her own surely unwanted opinion, Hermione fought her way out of her tangled sheets, not however letting go of her wand. She still had that uneasy feeling.

And she hadn't been able to shake it by the time she made her way down to the Great Hall with Harry. They'd been told that they wouldn't need their wands, so Hermione had reluctantly left hers locked in her trunk. Now, surrounded by her classmates, many of them potential Death Eaters (and one confirmed), she wasn't sure if that had been such a wise decision.

All of the sixth-years were in high spirits, some of them laughing and twirling in an approximation of how they'd seen their parents or other adults Apparating. Hermione pressed herself against the wall to let the most boisterous of them go by. She still didn't deal well with situations in which she might be touched inadvertently. Harry was distracted, scanning the passing group as if he were looking for someone… and Hermione would have bet good money that someone was Draco Malfoy.

When they arrived in the Great Hall, Hermione managed to pull Harry over to a spot on the edge of the group. At least that way, she felt like she could escape easily if she needed to. She saw Ron and Lavender come in, and was relieved when they took up positions well away from her. She also was surprised to see Oonagh MacDermott: She was in her seventh year and should have taken her Apparition lessons the previous year.

She didn't have much time to speculate on that, however, as her attention was soon drawn to the front of the room, where Professor McGonagall was calling the students to attention and introducing their instructor, a wispy-looking wizard named Twycross. Hermione couldn't really concentrate on what he was saying, however, as standing right behind him and next to McGonagall was the Slytherin Head of House: Severus Snape. He had a deep scowl on his face and was watching the crowd like a hawk. The scrutiny made Hermione want to turn tail and escape by the quickest possible means. There was a brief commotion involving Draco, which only increased Snape's apparent displeasure and Hermione's jitters.

She was further disquieted by the news that the anti-Apparition enchantment had been lifted; the caveat that Apparition would only be possible _within_ the confines of Great Hall was small comfort to her. What assurances did they have that the enchantment had only been lifted within the Great Hall? How did they know that some Death Eaters wouldn't find a chink in the protections still surrounding the outer walls? She began to greatly regret having left her wand upstairs and wondered if it might be possible for her to sneak out in order to retrieve it.

And where was Professor Dumbledore? He usually reveled in group activities like this, but today, as on so many days during this school year already, he distinguished himself only through his absence. She looked over at Malfoy; he appeared to still be arguing with Crabbe. Snape seemed to have the two of them fixed with his hawk-eyed glare as well, which only made Hermione more suspicious. He knew something. He knew that Malfoy was up to something.

Hermione turned to Harry to ask him what he thought Malfoy had planned, but Harry was already pushing his way through the crowd.

"Harry, where are you going?" she called after him anxiously, but he was too far away. She lost sight of him in a moment, swallowed up behind a row of Ravenclaws. She suddenly felt very exposed and very alone.

She rubbed her hands over her arms in a self-comforting gesture and took stock of the students nearest her: Terry Boot was on her left, apparently recovered from whatever had stricken him and earnestly following Professor Flitwick's instructions on how to line up. And behind her was Neville. She gave him a nervous little smile, which he returned, before directing her attention back to the podium.

Snape had descended to the main floor and was now standing off to the side, apparently to better oversee his charges and step in should a mishap occur.

Mr Twycross began with his lesson, but Hermione couldn't concentrate at all. The theory of the three Ds was old hat to her, of course, having read up on it in preparation for her licensing, but she'd never actually tried to Apparate before. Although she was usually quite good at mastering magic tricks on the first, or at least the second, try, she was wretchedly unsuccessful at every attempt now.

When Susan Bones screamed, Hermione's heart just about stopped beating; she was sure that the Death Eater attack had begun. Her first instinct was to get away. In the general confusion of students and instructors surging toward the focus of the excitement, Hermione slipped out the nearest door unnoticed.

She ran through the empty halls, no destination in mind, up stairs and down, until she felt sure that no one was running after her. She ducked into a doorway to catch her breath, and realized with a shudder of guilt that she'd left her friends down in the Great Hall to fend for themselves. They could be dead now, or being tortured, or – she realized with a sick feeling that this was the most likely alternative – kidnapped, just as she and the others had been.

Although Professor McGonagall had said it would only be possible to Apparate within the Great Hall itself and had warned them strictly against attempting to go beyond the walls, that didn't necessarily mean it was true. Was it even possible to lift the enchantment within an enclosed space? That was probably what Snape and Malfoy and any other secret Death Eaters had been planning: To take advantage of the freedom of Apparition in the Great Hall and take out as many Muggle-borns as possible, maybe even purebloods they considered to be blood traitors. People like Ron! And they were all defenseless, having been told to leave their wands in their rooms. Oh, what to do?

She was stricken by indecision. She didn't actually know for sure that there had been an attack. Maybe there had been another reason for the scream… although she couldn't think of anything off the top of her head. If there had been an attack, she should go get help. Professor Dumbledore. She poked her head back out into the hall to see where exactly she was, anyway. She was close to Gryffindor Tower, her feet having taken her unconsciously in that direction. The Headmaster's office was at least several minutes away, and that was only if all of the staircases played along with her and she didn't run into anyone who might try to stop her on the way.

On the other hand, it would be much faster for her to dash up to her room, get her wand, and go back down directly to the Great Hall. And do what…? Get hit by another of Dolohov's curses? Be put under the Imperius again by Snape? She'd proven last year at the Ministry that she was no good when it came to wand combat, and the unfortunate fact that Snape was the Defense teacher this year certainly hadn't helped her improve any. The Headmaster's office it was, then, although she was nearly in tears over the lost minutes that would mean.

That was why she literally sobbed with relief when she saw Luna wandering along the corridor just a few seconds later, humming an unrecognizable tune to herself.

"Oh! Luna!" Hermione cried, grabbing the other girl's shoulders. "You don't know how glad I am to see you!"

"Hello, Hermione," Luna responded with a bemused smile. "I'm happy to see you, too. I've hardly seen you at all this year. It's a shame the D.A. is no longer meeting, don't you think? Here, would you like a handkerchief? I think I have one in my sock…" She started to bend over, but Hermione shook her head vigorously.

"No! There's no time!" she gasped. "Listen, I think there's been some sort of attack in the Great Hall. We were having Apparition lessons, and someone screamed, and the enchantments had been lifted," she rambled, not aware that she wasn't making much sense. "You've got to go tell Professor Dumbledore!"

"All right, if you say so," Luna agreed, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of a sensible explanation. "Are you going, too? We could go together." Luna watched Hermione with her big, unblinking eyes, and although she appeared outwardly calm, there was a hopeful eagerness in her demeanor.

"No, I'm going to get my wand and go back down there." She hadn't thought she would, but as soon as she said it, it seemed like the right thing to do. She started for Gryffindor Tower.

"Shall I get my wand as well, after I've informed Professor Dumbledore?" Luna called after her. "Do you think it will be like it was at the Department of Mysteries? I did regret that I wasn't able to use more of the spells that we learned in the D.A."

"If you want—I don't know! Just do whatever Professor Dumbledore thinks best!" Hermione shouted over her shoulder as she broke into a run.

It seemed to take forever for the Fat Lady to move aside, and another eternity for her to get her wand out of her chest, fumbling badly with the lock in her haste. On her way back out, she considered briefly whether to ask the two seventh-year boys who were sitting in the common room playing Gobstones to come with her as reinforcements, but discarded the idea as taking too long to explain.

As she got closer to the Great Hall, she slowed down, looking and listening for signs of danger or mayhem. There were none. On the contrary, a small group of underclassmen were coming in from outside as she passed through the Entrance Hall, laughing and sending out a carefree air. They didn't so much as spare her a glance as she dashed past.

The big main doors to the Great Hall were still closed, but Hermione bypassed them and ran around to the same side entrance she'd snuck out of earlier. Panting hard, both from running and from the excitement, she pulled the door open just a sliver. There was a low murmur of voices, and she could see several robed figures standing around the room. Figures in Hogwarts robes, not Death Eaters. She opened the door a bit further. There was Terry, twirling around artfully, and Neville, his face screwed up in concentration while he mouthed some instructions to himself. One Hufflepuff girl was helping another up off the floor, both of them laughing. All the way in the back, Hermione could make out Malfoy's tell-tale white-blond hair. No sign of an attack of any kind. Hermione got a creeping feeling that she might have made a terrible mistake.

She eased her way into the room, keeping her back to the wall. Professor McGonagall was standing near Malfoy, as was Professor Snape, although they both seemed to be doing nothing more than observing the ranks of students. Mr Twycross was walking around the main floor, stopping every now and then to give a pointer to someone.

She felt as if she had entered another dimension. She had been so certain! How could she have erred so completely? Hermione took up her place in front of Neville again, confused but keeping her wand at the ready.

"Oh, there you are!" she heard Neville exclaim after a moment. She turned around. "How far did you get?" he asked her eagerly.

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean? What's going on?"

"I noticed that you'd disappeared," he explained. "You must have Apparated clear to the other side of the room. I didn't see you anywhere."

"I went up to my room," she said. "To get my wand." She held it up, then tucked it into her sleeve, now a bit embarrassed both about having left and about being the only one with a wand. "What was that before? With someone screaming?"

"Didn't you see? Susan Splinched herself. It took about ten minutes to get everyone calmed down again. You mean you Apparated up to your room? I thought we couldn't go out of the Great Hall."

"We can't. At least…" She recalled her previous thoughts about the extent of the anti-Apparition enchantments. "I don't know, I just walked out."

"Mr Longbottom, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall's voice interrupted them. "A little less talking, a little more determination, if you please. Miss Granger, I didn't see you here a moment ago. Did you successfully Apparate?" The Gryffindor House Head seemed hopeful that her star pupil would be the first one to succeed.

"No, Ma'am, I just…" She hesitated to admit that she'd left the room, feeling that would be frowned on. "… was seeing if I could find a better spot to practice over there," she finished, jutting her chin vaguely toward the other side of the room. "I didn't feel comfortable here. But all the other spaces were taken. I'll just stay here now."

Professor McGonagall didn't seem fazed by Hermione's somewhat thin answer, but instead encouraged her, "All right, then, let's see how you're doing." She took a step back, as if to give Hermione room.

Hermione felt desperately unhappy. There was no way she'd be able to Apparate. Aside from the fact that she hadn't even really listened to Mr Twycross' instructions, she was still all shaken up from her little adventure and couldn't concentrate at all. However, so as not to disappoint her Head of House, she closed her eyes, tried to focus on the space in the hoop lying on the ground in front of her, and turned on one heel. She wasn't at all surprised when nothing happened, but she tried not to feel too badly. It was clear that Professor McGonagall was disappointed as well, although she made a mildly encouraging comment before moving on to Neville.

God, what was going on with her? Was she going mental? She'd actually thought she'd been doing pretty well. She was able to sleep in the bed she'd been kidnapped from, sit calmly in a classroom with the man who'd raped her, and even help Harry with his project on the side. People had stopped asking her if she was sick, and the wild comments about her and some mysterious older man had died off of their own accord. She'd thought she was playing the part of the normal, seventeen-year-old Hogwarts student fairly well. But if she started imagining things and acting crazy, people would start asking questions again. She didn't want that. She just wanted everyone to forget about it. That is, she corrected herself, she wanted to be able to forget about it herself. No one else knew about it, of course; that's the way it had to stay.

The rest of the lesson passed without any more incidents. On the way out, Harry caught up with Hermione and asked her how she'd done. When she admitted she hadn't had any luck, Harry ribbed with a good-natured grin: "Finally, something Hermione can't do!" This, coupled with her honest frustration at not having mastered it yet, made her flat-out angry. She was trying to come up with a good retort when Ron joined them.

"Hey, Harry, how'd you do?" he asked, pointedly – it seemed to Hermione -- ignoring her. "I think I felt something the last time I tried – a kind of tingling in my feet."

Hermione's temper burst at the seeming slight. "I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won," she spat out before stalking away. It would be just her luck if Ron managed to Apparate before she did.

She didn't feel like going back up to Gryffindor Tower, and not just because it looked like Harry and Ron were headed in that direction. She was still shaken from her misassumption about the attack, and she wanted some space to think. She didn't get far, though, when she came upon a group of Slytherin seventh-years who appeared to have cornered Oonagh MacDermott. Hermione very nearly gave in to her desire to avoid any more confrontations when the sudden appearance of several wands brandished in an aggressive manner awakened her sense of duty as a prefect.

"No magic in the halls!" she called out, approaching the group with her own wand drawn.

"Looks like Mudbloods of a feather stick together," Vaisey sneered, casually twirling his wand between his long fingers. "This is seventh-year business, worm." The other Slytherins watched her disdainfully, but Hermione noticed that they discreetly returned their wands to their pockets.

"Even if you don't respect me, you will respect the badge." Hermione tapped the Prefect symbol pinned to her robes.

"What do you think this is?" Vaisey snarled and tapped his own Prefect's badge. "I was just explaining the rules to MacDirtbutt here."

Oonagh lunged at him, her face contorted with rage. "You take that back, you filthy snake!"

Vaisey made a grab for Oonagh's wand, but she was too quick for him, rearing back and casting a rather nasty hex in his direction.

Vaisey ducked the spell, and it looked very much as if he and his friends were about to return fire when Hermione placed herself physically between the two parties, holding out her hands to keep them apart. "Stop it!" she shrieked. "Oonagh, I hate to do this, but five points from Gryffindor for using magic in the halls."

One of the Slytherin girls laughed triumphantly.

"Keep out of it, Granger!" Oonagh said angrily. "I didn't ask you to get involved."

Hermione whirled around and snarled at her: "I wouldn't have if you'd been able to take care of it without resorting to violence."

"You tell her," Vaisey chipped in. "Drippendors are always so hot-headed." His friends snickered their agreement.

Oonagh made to go for him again, but Hermione held her back, with difficulty. "Oonagh, no, it's not worth it," she hissed. Being so close to her now, Hermione could see the end of a pink scar beginning just below Oonagh's throat and disappearing down into the neck of her shirt. She quickly looked away.

"Oh, that's where she's wrong, Dirtbutt," Vaisey taunted. "We're worth every bit of it, and more. Don't worry. We'll finish this later. Make sure to come alone next time." And with a word to his companions, the Slytherins moved off, their forced, loud laughter echoing behind them.

"What was that about?" Hermione asked, only letting go of Oonagh when the others were no longer in sight. The seventh-year girl was breathing hard and sweating, her clothes rumpled.

"None of your concern," she said shortly, pushing her wild, black hair back out of her face.

"If you say so," Hermione retorted, mimicking Oonagh's tone. "But if it had something to do with you being Muggle-born, then I think it is my concern."

Oonagh looked down at Hermione with an expression of disbelief. "It had nothing to do with that; they're just so pin-headed they can't come up with any other insults." She shoved her wand into what looked like a hip-holster under her robes and started to walk away.

Hermione hurried to keep up with her. "Well, what was it, then? It didn't sound like they're going to give up so easily. Maybe I can help."

Oonagh stopped walking and rolled her eyes. "If you must know, they were having at me because I'm taking Apparition lessons with you lot. I had the Heebie-Jeebies last year and couldn't risk Apparating. But I want to get my license now. Happy?" She walked away without waiting for an answer.

"That's it?" Hermione ran a bit to catch up with her again. "Then why the war cries?"

"I have a right to defend myself." Oonagh patted her side, where her wand was hidden under her school uniform.

Hermione's eye followed the motion. "Good thing you happened to have your wand with you, then," she ventured, suspecting it hadn't been happenstance at all.

"I never, _never_, go anywhere unarmed," Oonagh said, narrowing her eyes. "I know they told us not to bring our wands this morning, but that'd be asking for it, wouldn't it." She eyed Hermione. "I see you took yours, too," she said with a bit of a triumphant smirk.

"Of course," she said, feeling uncomfortable about the lie she was about to tell. "I had to, as a Prefect." She didn't want to tell Oonagh what had really happened; although, Hermione considered, Oonagh was probably the only person at Hogwarts who would have understood.

"Ah, right," Oonagh muttered.

Oonagh seemed to be heading back to Gryffindor tower, which was exactly the place that Hermione had wanted to avoid.

"Hey, Oonagh…? Wait a sec. Do you… want to go somewhere and talk or something?"

"About what?" Oonagh asked impatiently, not slowing her pace. "I told you, those buffoons are nothing serious. It doesn't bother me, really."

"No, not about that. About… you know. Before." Hermione's gaze flicked down to Oonagh's scar.

Oonagh stopped now, her voice becoming brittle. "There's nothing to talk about. We decided not to talk about it, remember? That's what you said. That's what we all agreed to. Even Dumbledore. Don't tell anyone."

"We said not to let _people_ know," Hermione said. "But it's not a secret between us. Do you ever…" Hermione hesitated, then plunged on: "This morning, I thought they'd come back." She flashed a nervous smile. "I mean, I thought they'd come to take us again. Isn't that crazy?"

"Granger, I think that every single day. Why do you think I keep my wand on me twenty-four-seven?"

"Does it help? I mean, do you feel safe?" Hermione asked softly.

"Of course not. I'll never feel safe," Oonagh said shortly. "And that's exactly what _keeps_ me safe. But I think you know that." She directed a meaningful look in the direction of Hermione's wand before turning and walking off.

+000+000+

"Then where is she?" Hermione gripped the edge of the wooden counter anxiously, trying to keep her hands still.

The Medi-witch looked at her over the top of her granny glasses. "She was released, dear," she said, not unkindly. Hermione recognized her vaguely from her many previous visits to Lisa's ward.

"Oh…" Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She'd experienced a racing panic when she'd opened the door to Lisa's room and found the bed empty. "Then… That's good, isn't it? She must be doing better?" To tell the truth, Hermione was a bit surprised. When she'd visited Lisa last week, she had still seemed weak, both physically and mentally.

The witch arched her brows. "You know I can't discuss other patients."

"I know. Can you at least tell me where they took her? I'd like to write her," she added, putting on an earnest expression.

The Medi-witch seemed to be weighing professional ethics against charity, and finally relented: "I think an owl addressed to her at home would reach her."

Hermione thanked her, then went to wait for her appointment with Teresa. Although she was glad that Lisa wasn't dead (her first thought), she was actually relieved that she was gone. Now she wouldn't feel obligated to visit her when she came to talk to the therapist. It was awful of her, she knew. But as far as she could see, her visits with Lisa hadn't brought either of them anything. They had been superficial and awkward. She also hadn't tried to contact Sandy since she'd gone home during Christmas break. It would just have been another reminder of what had happened. Of what fate she'd been spared. Or had it been Snape who'd spared her? She didn't want to think about him.

She told Teresa as much: "I need to be done with this. I don't think I'll be coming anymore." She was surprised to hear herself say it, but it felt good to. She'd never looked forward to the sessions, and felt drained afterwards. And with Lisa gone, there was no extra reason bringing her to the hospital.

"Do you feel like you're done with it?" Teresa asked mildly. "Can you just turn it off like that?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, thinking of the incidents of the past week, "but I need to," she finished stubbornly. "I feel like I keep getting dragged back there. Everything reminds me."

"I wish you'd reconsider."

Hermione shook her head and pressed her lips together. She felt like she was about to cry, but she didn't want to lose control now. She had to keep control. "I can't. Every time I come here, I have to think about it again."

"We don't have to talk about it. We can talk about something else."

Hermione sniffed and looked out the window. It was easier to maintain control if she didn't have to face Teresa's clear-eyed gaze. "It doesn't matter. Just coming here means admitting that it happened."

"Do you want to deny it?" Teresa's tone was casual, as usual, but there was a sharpness behind the question that Hermione took as a challenge, and responded fiercely:

"Yes! I know that's not 'healthy' and that I have to accept it and get on with my life, but yes! I want to deny it. I want for it never to have happened, all right? Is that so bad?"

"I don't think it's bad. I wish it had never happened to you, either. But that doesn't make it undone. There are consequences to a traumatic experience like a brutal rape, whether you want them or not."

"I know, thanks," Hermione said venomously, crossing her arms. She felt the tears swimming in her eyes and tried to keep them from overflowing.

"For what it's worth, this is the first time I've seen you get angry about it," Teresa said. She seemed to sense that Hermione needed her to talk, so she went on: "You've said before that it made you angry, but I never saw the emotion. You've been trying to control it so hard, Hermione. It's like you think that by controlling your feelings now, you can control what happened in retrospect. It doesn't work like that. What happened, happened. It was out of your control. You couldn't do anything. It's not your fault. It's not your fault what happened to you, or Lisa, or anyone else who was there."

Hermione broke down and let the tears come. "But it's my fault now, right?" she shouted. "That's what you're saying, isn't it? It's my own fault now if I get messed up about it? If I 'bottle up my emotions' or whatever the medical term is, and end up going crazy or killing someone?"

"You can decide now what to do with your life," Teresa responded carefully, passing her a box of tissues, which Hermione snatched out of her hand. "From what I've seen of you, I don't think you're heading for a breakdown like that. But I also think it's clear that you haven't worked through your feelings regarding the attack. You said that everything reminded you of it. Unless you're literally being confronted daily with relics from that night, I think that means that you're still working through it, internally. You certainly won't serve your own peace of mind by pretending that it didn't happen, or that you're over it when you aren't."

Hermione neglected to mention that she did, in fact, have to deal civilly with her rapist nearly every day, because she knew that the other part of Teresa's statement was true as well.

"So you think I should keep seeing you," she said sullenly.

"Not if you don't want to, no. I wouldn't want you to expend your energy fighting me."

"It's nothing personal."

Teresa smiled wryly. "I don't take it personally. I like you, Hermione. I feel good that you've been able to talk with me as much as you have about what happened to you. But I _have_ sensed that you haven't been able to completely open up to me. Maybe it's because I'm still a stranger to you, although some people find it easier to talk to a stranger about their personal issues. It doesn't have to be me, though. If there's someone else in your life who you feel more comfortable talking to, I'd certainly encourage you to do so. I know that rape is a very personal thing, and that it won't be easy to bring it up. But once you have, maybe you'll stop seeing those reminders of it everywhere else."

Talk to someone else? Hermione thought cynically. Who was there? Oonagh would just tell her to toughen up; her mother would make a huge scene and forbid her ever to go near anything or anyone even remotely magical again; Harry would go on a rampage and probably kill Snape with his bare hands. None of those things would do Hermione any good. However, keeping up her sessions with Teresa also seemed like too much effort for too little return at the moment. "I'll think about it," she agreed. "I still don't know if I'll come back, though."

"I'll be here if you want," Teresa assured her.

+000+000+

_Author's note: I know, that was very Hermione-centric. And I also realize that I didn't follow up on what happened with Luna and Dumbledore. But really, nothing happened because there was no attack. Maybe Luna found Dumbledore and told him, and he quickly ascertained there was nothing, and put it down to being one of Luna's weird ideas. Or maybe Luna never found Dumbledore, went down to the Great Hall herself and found nothing out of the ordinary, and forgot about it._


	21. Chapter 21: Everyone Has A Secret

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 21**

**Everyone Has A Secret**

Hermione made her way down to breakfast with butterflies in her stomach. She wasn't hungry; she wasn't actually sure why she was going at all. Now that she'd officially ended her sessions with Teresa, she was all on her own. Nothing had really changed, of course, but she felt like she was swimming far from shore, toward an unknown destination. Her only course of action at this point was to grasp onto normal routines. Going to breakfast before the first class was a normal thing to do. Therefore, here she was. She had been avoiding social situations for weeks now, slipping into the Great Hall at the tail-end of meals in order to snatch a few bites of necessary nutrients. This time, the morning meal would be in full swing. She followed a pair of Hufflepuffs into the muted clatter of spoons stirring and knives scraping against plates.

Everyone's conversation paused as she approached the Gryffindor table. She forced herself not to care and slid into the space beside Harry on the bench, greeting Ron and Lavender as well without really looking at them. Mechanically, she reached for a piece of toast and began to nibble on it, dry. Slowly, the others relaxed and resumed their chatter. She kept her eyes on her plate, and after what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, the toast was gone, as well as a second piece, and her clenched stomach began to relax. Just in time, too, as the post owls took that moment to arrive, dropping the _Daily Prophet_ directly in front of her.

She sought out the headline with apprehension – Death Eater-related stories were hard for her to stomach, but she was pathologically unable not to read them – and was relieved to read about a Quidditch referee who'd been caught taking payoffs. She was about to open the paper to check the inside stories when raised voices from the Slytherin table caught her attention. The din of conversation around the hall ebbed at the promise of an interesting confrontation.

Snape and Draco were engaged in a ridiculous tug-of-war over a small, wrapped package which Draco had apparently just received by owl. After a brief struggle, the professor won, and he turned the box over in his hands.

"I don't believe this has been checked for Dark magic yet. No WizardPost stamp..."

"Of course not, that's directly from my mother," Draco shot back impatiently, tossing his hair back out of his face.

Snape narrowed his eyes at the young man. "Private deliveries are to be brought directly to the Head of House for inspection."

"Are you accusing my mother of trafficking in Dark items?"

"One can never be too careful." Snape's thin lips pressed together in a white line as he gave Draco a hard look. "Remember the unfortunate incident with Miss Bell and the Cursed necklace."

Draco glared back at Snape. "That was different. She didn't know who it was from. This is obviously from my mother." He jerked his head in the direction of the great horned owl strutting through Crabbe's kippers.

"Still. It would be possible that someone else had commandeered your family's owl in order to harm you. I think you will agree that there are some very sick people out there who might wish your family ill."

Draco seemed to be considering a proper reply to that, but then became aware of all the eyes on them. He flicked his hand toward the package and turned around with a scowl. "Take it, then. You'll see there's nothing Dark in there."

"You may collect it from me this evening after dinner." Snape stalked back up to the teachers' table, glaring at any students he caught watching him. Hermione quickly turned back to her toast.

"Blimey, what I wouldn't give to be there when he opens it," Ron said in an undertone so as not to attract the retreating professor's attention. "I'll bet it's something embarrassing."

"Underwear!" Seamus blurted out.

The entire Gryffindor table burst out laughing. Hermione found herself giggling as well.

+++000+++000+++

"Today, we will be discussing the Unforgivables, specifically, the Imperius," Snape droned, staring at a spot on the back wall.

Hermione froze, recalling what had happened the last time the Imperius Curse had come up in class: She had ended up losing fifty House points and being sent to the Headmaster's office for insubordination. And she also recalled, vividly, the reason why she had become so agitated: Snape had used the Imperius on her in order to rape her, and then begun blithely discussing its use in class... Although, now that she thought back to it, she didn't actually remember him having lauded its use in any way. But then she'd been sent packing so quickly, she didn't really have any idea what his take was on the subject. She determined to listen carefully this time and not let herself be provoked.

"We have touched on the subject a number of times thus far," Snape continued in the same bored monotone, "but only tangentially. Open your books to page two hundred and fifty-three." He fixed Harry with a cold sneer. "We will not be interested in hearing about any incidents of precocious heroicism." Was it her imagination, or had his gaze flickered just briefly in her direction as well? "Miss Brown, if you would, please summarize the third paragraph from the top."

While Lavender frantically flipped to the right page and began to stutter out an answer, Hermione snuck a look at Harry. He was staring at the page in front of him, but she could see his nostrils flaring. She reached over under the table and gave his hand a squeeze. He started, and looked at her, surprised, and she gave him what she hoped was a sympathetic look.

"Thanks," he whispered and squeezed her hand back, before she withdrew it.

By the end of the lesson, Hermione was troubled. Not because Snape had done anything egregious; somewhat the opposite, in fact. She came away with the impression that he actually abhorred the use of the Class Three Unforgivable. He had even snapped at Malfoy when the young man had suggested using the Imperius Curse in order to make someone write his homework for him, thus fulfilling both theoretical and practical aspects of the assignment.

"Mr. Malfoy," (Snape had said,) "may I remind you once again that we are not here to learn how to cast the Imperius Curse, but rather to recognize when others are under the influence of it. We will not go so far as to discuss resisting it, as I doubt any of you--" (here, he could not resist giving Harry a hard stare) "—have the fortitude of will to do so. In any event, you will not be called on either to demonstrate the Curse nor to resist in in the course of your N.E.W.T. exam."

Hermione had felt Harry shift in his seat at that, but, admirably, he had remained silent.

Malfoy hadn't been able to contain himself that well, however, and had cheekily retorted, "So you're telling me that our side has never used it?"

Hermione caught her breath. Knowing (or believing, at any rate) that both Draco and Snape were Death Eaters, the use of the phrase 'our side' was like a call for a show of colors.

Snape, however, did not take the bait, but rather answered sharply, "What other people are called on to do in their jobs, and in the course of battle or other operations, is none of your concern, Mr. Malfoy. There is a reason, however, that the Imperius is one of only three Unforgivable curses in the wizarding justice system, and rest assured that anyone – anyone – who uses it, no matter what the reason, will be called on to answer for it."

Malfoy had smoldered at this answer, and it had set Hermione to wondering: Had Snape also had to answer for his use of the Imperius on her? Not to the wizarding justice system, obviously, but maybe to Dumbledore? Had Snape been punished? A second, related thought was: maybe he hadn't taken the whole thing as lightly as she had thought at first. Maybe it hadn't just been another night like any other to him.

She realized with a bolt that Harry (well, all of them, really) had badly misjudged Snape in their first year: They'd all thought that he was trying to kill Harry, when in fact he had been trying (and succeeding, several times) to protect him from Professor Quirrell. Maybe she was just as guilty this year. Maybe she had misjudged Professor Snape. It was certainly easy to hate him, to see him as the villain. It was true that he had done a very bad thing ... more than one very, _very_ bad thing. He'd had a choice, and he'd made a mistake.

But, recalling what both Snape and Dumbledore had told her, it was probable that Snape had felt it was the best thing he could do in that situation. He may have even thought he was protecting her. But did he know how she'd suffered because of it? Did he realize the extent of what he had wrought?

"That was a joke, right? Tell me that was a joke." Ron galumphed along on the other side of Harry, Lavender toddling beside him. "Bloody wanker can't teach for bollocks. Too bad that Moody was a nutcase. At least he knew what he was talking about, eh?"

Harry shook his head, confused. "What are you talking about, Ron?"

"He didn't even show us the Imperius! Just a bunch of case studies. 'Acting in a strange manner', 'vacant expressions'. Pfff!" Ron scoffed.

"He didn't even give me a point for the right answer, did he, Wonnie?" Lavender whined.

"But those are the signs of being under the Imperius Curse, Ron," Harry pointed out. "It wasn't exactly a very interesting class, but I don't think he actually said anything wrong."

Or _did_ anything wrong, Hermione added silently. Since that last time he'd sent her to the hospital wing, he'd been very correct and careful with using his wand in class. It was almost as if... he had learned from his mistakes. Hermione's ears prickled and she got a very uncomfortable feeling.

"Oh great, now you're defending him, too!" Ron threw his long arms up into the air, causing a suit of armor to sway backwards to avoid being hit. "Come on, Lav." He pulled his girlfriend with him, and the two of them disappeared down the hall.

"That was a bit of an overreaction," Harry commented mildly to Hermione.

"I guess," Hermione said, still lost in thought about Snape.

"You're not still in a twist about him and Lavender, are you?" Harry asked, obviously misinterpreting her aloof manner for annoyance at Ron.

Hermione sniffed with mild amusement. "No. No, it's something else entirely."

"What?"

"What?" Too late, she realized she'd put Harry onto a new scent. "Oh, nothing. Just... the homework. I was thinking about the homework."

"Two feet on the Imperius. You'll have no problem."

"No, but I'd better get cracking. You coming to the library?"

Harry shook his head. "Quidditch this afternoon," he said grimly. Hermione got the feeling that things weren't going so well with the team. "I'll squeeze in a foot tonight after dinner."

They parted ways on the second-floor landing, with Harry continuing up to Gryffindor Tower and Hermione turning down the hall toward the library. She considered again whether to tell him what had happened. He was reasonable (unlike certain red-heads she could mention); he would listen to her. Maybe he could even help her to decide whether she was completely off with her new assessment of Snape. She could, of course, go back to Teresa to talk about it, but she felt like that would be admitting failure, and Teresa had told her she should confide in a friend, after all. Maybe she would talk to Harry. Tonight.

+++000+++000+++

"...Apparating without a license. Although they are Ravenclaws, can't resist showing off their knowledge," Flitwick was saying, although Snape wasn't really listening. He scowled and shook his head at the plate of ginger snaps which Minerva silently pushed in his direction.

"Dear me, that is a bit of a sticky pickle, what, Filius?" Slughorn daintily brushed crumbs off of his waistcoat. "Can't fault a chap for trying, though, eh?" He winked conspiratorially.

"Really, Horace!" Minerva scolded. "That's the second serious Splinching this month. It's just a good thing Mister Pembroke had the presence of mind to bring the leg along to Madam Pomfrey!"

"Quite," Slughorn agreed affably, reaching for another handful of biscuits.

"Albus, I would recommend – Albus! What is it?" she asked in alarm.

The Headmaster had just winced and clutched at his left arm.

"It's nothing, nothing," Dumbledore said, waving his good arm and forcing a smile, fooling no one.

"Everyone out," Snape barked, at the Headmaster's side in one smooth motion.

"I most certainly—"

"Shall I summon Poppy?"

"Whatever is—"

The other House Heads began talking over each other in a flurry of excitement, all converging on the Headmaster, who suddenly looked very old and sunken in his chair. Snape reached for Dumbledore's left sleeve and began to pull it back to reveal the black and crackling skin, but the Headmaster slapped his good hand down onto Snape's to prevent him pulling the material back any further.

"Severus..." he said softly, looking into Snape's eyes. He didn't want any witnesses to the rest.

"Filius!" Snape said quickly. "Go to my potions cabinet and bring back the jar of ice-blue salve. It is labeled 'Number Fourteen'. The password for the office is 'antimony'. You will need to perform an unlocking charm three times."

Flitwick set off as fast as his short legs could carry him.

"Pomona, down to the infirmary, tell Poppy to prepare a bed. If it becomes necessary..."

"Right away!" Sprout charged off before Snape had even finished talking.

"Minerva—" Snape began, but she cut him off.

"You won't be sending me away!" she huffed, glaring at Snape in a very nearly hostile manner.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said gently. "Please. Severus knows what he's doing. I trust him."

"I know a thing or two about countering Dark magic myself!"

"I'm not going to curse him, if that's what you're worried about!" Snape growled.

"Of course not!" Minerva replied, affronted.

"It will be all right," Dumbledore said soothingly. "I apologize for alarming you. It's nothing, really. Just that old injury giving me a twinge. I'd prefer if Severus took a look at it in private, though. If you don't mind."

McGonagall pressed her lips together, obviously minding very much. "Very well. But I will be waiting down with Poppy, and if you don't appear there in short order, I shall return to escort you there myself."

"Fine," Dumbledore agreed with a nod.

"Horace?" McGonagall invited him to accompany her out.

"Ah, yes," Slughorn said, having silently and with great interest followed the conversation. "I'll just check on things in Slytherin House, shall I?"

With a suspicious backward glance, McGonagall allowed Slughorn to hold the door for her as the two of them left.

"Now what is this all about?" Snape asked roughly as soon as they were alone. He shoved the heavily embroidered sleeve back and blanched. The bottom half of Dumbledore's arm was nothing more than a charred bone ending in a blackened claw. "When did this happen? When was the last treatment?" Snape tried frantically to recall.

"Now, now, Severus, it's not as bad as it looks," Dumbledore said calmly. "What I felt, though – " He winced again and his arm twitched against his side. "There!" He indicated an area of his upper arm.

Snape had him hold his sleeve all the way up against his shoulder. The blackness was literally creeping up the old man's flaccid biceps. Several thin tendrils were etched across the bluish skin, moving inexorably upward.

"Cold..." Dumbledore breathed out.

Snape looked at him sharply. The headmaster's eyes had fluttered shut. His eyelids were nearly transluscent and blue; his lips had taken on an alarming purple hue.

"It's going straight for your heart," Snape announced, surprised at how calm he sounded. He didn't feel calm at all. What to do? A Stimulans Charm? Digitalis? He'd have to send Flitwick back down when he got back with the Dark magic blocker. The thing was, he couldn't slow the curse down any further. Amputation would do more harm than good: The arm was acting as a sink, keeping the Dark magic localized. Cutting the arm off would cut the curse free, in effect, allowing it to wreak its final havoc on Dumbledore's body. But the arm was as good as amputated now; there was just nothing left, no substance for the curse to feed on.

"Albus!" Snape spoke more sharply than he intended. Dumbledore's eyes jerked open. "We're going to have to try something else," Snape said, trying to sound more assured than he actually was. He wasn't a Healer, after all.

"I trust you, Severus," Dumbledore said, never taking his eyes off of the other man's face.

Dumbledore trusted him. That was the crux, wasn't it. He had trusted him, and that was what had bound Snape to him. Snape felt the weight of that trust heavily.

"I will attempt a graft," Snape said, trying to dredge up his memories of long-ago read passages from Dr. Frankenstein's treatise on melding body parts. "The curse is getting restless. It needs something to work on, something to destroy."

Dumbledore smiled wanly. "Of course. A brilliant suggestion. I only wish..."

"What, Headmaster?" Snape steeled himself for the unavoidable melodramatic listing of the Headmaster's regrets and unfinished business, most of which would involve Snape needing to repent and improve himself.

"I only wish," Dumbledore continued in a weak voice, "that I had indulged more thoroughly at Christmas. The extra few pounds would have come in handy right about now."

+++000+++000+++

If Snape could have afforded it, he would have been exhausted. As it was, he awaited the – he hoped – final confrontation of the day in his office. An untouched plate of food, provided by one of Hogwarts' ever-solicitous house-elves, had been pushed to the edge of the desk. He knew that he should eat something, but quite honestly, the sight of the bloody cut of roast beef turned his stomach.

The graft had gone well, all things considering. He'd had to do it quickly, mindful of the toe-tapping and clock-watching that would be going on down in the hospital wing. The black tendrils had immediately turned back and latched on to the layer of fresh, pink skin and muscle that Snape had laid down across the ulna bone. It would buy them a bit more time, but there were only so many spare bits of flesh on the elderly headmaster's body. It was a stop-gap measure at best.

Snape had never really thought about it in such terms before, but Albus Dumbledore was old. Over a hundred and fifty years, when it came right down to it. Even for a wizard, that was a lifetime and a half. Snape couldn't conceive of a time when Dumbledore might not be around any more. He had simply always been there. And it clearly wasn't just Snape who felt that way. McGonagall, Hagrid, Riddle... Dumbledore (and his myth) had been a fixture in their lives from their earliest years, too, and they always spoke of him as they did of Hogwarts castle itself: as an icon, something akin to a force of nature. But the end of that time was rapidly approaching, one way or another. Snape was somewhat appalled to find himself regarding that prospect with regret. Quite inappropriate, considering that he himself would likely end up being the instrument of that event.

A quick double-rap on the door brought him back, mercifully, to the present. He hardened his features and bade his charge enter. He was quite interested to hear what explanation Draco might offer for the contents of his mother's package.

"Mr Malfoy." He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk.

Draco slunk in and hunched down. He seemed nervous.

Good, Snape thought. Maybe we can give him an ulcer while we're at it. He stood abruptly, flipping his robes out of the way, and walked over to the cabinet on the far wall, purposely not looking at Malfoy. He made a great show of perusing the shelves, taking his time, letting the boy sweat. Finally, he plucked the heavy brown bottle from its place and inspected it carefully, all the while not saying a word.

Finally, seemingly offhand, he stated, "Polyjuice Potion."

Draco cleared his throat, taking this as his cue to talk. "What about it?" he retorted belligerently. "It's not illegal. Or Dark!"

Snape raised one eyebrow and turned halfway toward Malfoy. He had been expecting him to say there had been a mistake. This made things more interesting. "Nor is it the sort of thing that a student at this institution should be having sent to them from home. The potential for abuse is... shall we say ... varied?"

Draco scoffed. "Afraid I'd use it to impersonate you?"

"You would be ill-advised to do so," Snape advised him. "For your own safety and sanity."

Draco's eyes widened at first, then he let out a bark of a laugh. "Right."

"Just out of curiosity, then... who were you planning on impersonating?"

"No one," Draco said sullenly. "It was just for laughs."

"This couldn't possibly have anything to do with your special assignment, could it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Draco muttered.

Snape walked over and put the bottle down gently on the desk in front of Malfoy. "Let me help you, Draco."

"I told you, it's not for that."

"Forget about the Polyjuice. The Headmaster would never be fooled."

"I said, it has nothing to do with that!" Draco was becoming agitated.

Snape leaned down close and placed his hands on either arm of the chair. He spoke quietly, but dangerously so. "Do you have any sort of plan, Draco? Even a vague semblance of a plot?"

Draco looked like he'd like nothing better than to shove Snape out of his face. "Give me my potion and let me go," he said, struggling to maintain control.

"Artifacts ... potions ... You can't get close enough to him to make any of those things work, Draco. You don't have many more chances. He's not on to you yet, but he's suspicious enough. I can get to him. I have his confidence. Just let me help you."

"It has to be—"

"Yes, yes, I realize that it has to be you," Snape said with a touch of irritation. "I'm not talking about shooting off a Killing Curse during breakfast. If you would just take me into your confidence—"

"I haven't got a plan, all right?" Draco burst out. "Nothing! Happy? You-Know-Who's going to kill me and my mother at the next summons!"

"Not if I can help it. You will not die. Do you hear me? Draco!"

The young man had buried his head in his hands. "I had an idea... but it's no good. Everything I think of, it's no good."

"What did you think of, Draco?" Snape asked, careful not to scare the boy off by appearing too eager.

"I thought of..." Draco lifted his head to look at Snape warily. "Do you remember when Umbridge had Hagrid arrested last year? There was a fight ... McGonagall was hit."

"I remember," Snape said stiffly.

"If ... if there were a fight. A battle. I could hit Dumbledore by mistake. Make it look like a mistake, anyway, in the confusion."

"I don't think that even I could convince the Headmaster to bring in a team of Aurors to take Hagrid down."

Draco looked disgusted. "That's not what I meant."

"That was sarcasm, Draco."

Draco, to his credit, did not even blink. "Right, I knew that. But what if ..." Draco's expression lightened as he warmed to his new idea. "What if Dumbledore showed up at one of our raids? You know. With all the hexes flying, he'd never notice me sneak up behind him..."

Snape sneered. "Don't flatter yourself, Draco, and _never_ overestimate your abilities. That _will_ get you killed. Albus Dumbledore faced the Dark Lord himself in single combat last year at the Ministry. Even if by some fluke or trick you did find yourself opposing him in such a confrontation, I daresay a sixth-year student, sneak or no, would be no match for him under battle conditions." Snape made himself sound as condescending as possible, but secretly, he feared that in the Headmaster's present weakened state, a sixth-year might well prove a match for him, especially if he were truly taken off-guard. Draco couldn't know that, though. He must continue to see Dumbledore as a formidable, impossibly superior opponent.

Draco deflated. "If you're supposed to be helping me, why don't you tell me how to do it, then."

Snape straightened up and looked down his nose at Draco. "You know I cannot do that. Our master wants to see you prove yourself. But I want you, from now on, to come to me with any plans, any ideas, you might have, no matter how far-fetched they may seem to you, before you take any actions. I can save you needless work. Do you agree?"

"Sure," Draco said listlessly. "Can I have my Polyjuice now?"

Snape picked up the bottle, but before relinquishing it to Draco's outstretched hand, he repeated: "Promise you will come to me before trying anything else?"

"I promise," Draco said, meeting Snape's eye, but both of them knew it was a lie.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione was angry. Harry hadn't shown up in the library after dinner. He'd said he was going to come to have Hermione help him with his essay on the Imperius Curse. Not that she was particularly concerned about whether he completed his assignment or not. But she had wanted to take the opportunity to talk to him about what had happened on Halloween. She had spent an hour psyching herself up for it, then another hour getting more and more insulted at his absence, and now she was stalking through the corridors on her way back to Gryffindor Tower. She should just learn never to count on anyone!

Of course, deep down, she knew she couldn't blame him; it's not like she had told him she had something important to discuss. And, in a way, she was actually relieved that he hadn't shown up. She'd practically made herself sick trying to figure out how to bring it up. She couldn't exactly just blurt out: 'Hey, Harry, by the way, Snape and Draco are Death Eaters who raped us last year...' In fact, she thought it would be better to keep names out of it entirely. Harry needed to focus on other things right now, and she wasn't looking for him to take revenge on her behalf.

She was going to tell him the gist of what had happened, break into it with the Imperius assignment by saying that she'd been put under the Imperius once, and hopefully go from there. She'd run through the possible conversation in her head countless times, going over what she thought she could safely say. She wasn't trying to protect Snape, or Draco, but she was aware that there were bigger things going on, and it was a little bit like with a Time-Turner. She didn't want to interfere with the events any more than necessary, for fear of having things turn out even worse. She was just trying to straighten up her own little corner of the world, and lately, she had been feeling that telling someone what had happened would relieve some of the pressure on her. Sharing the secret would make it a little smaller.

But it didn't look like it was going to happen tonight. She snapped the password at the Fat Lady, who swung outward with a huff, and clambered awkwardly into the common room, bumping her heavy bookbag behind her.

It was mostly quiet, with a group of students playing some game in front of the fire, and several others lounging around chatting or reading. Harry was at a table by himself, bent over a parchment.

Hermione's anger had mostly dissipated by now, and she went over to him, feeling just a bit grumpy.

"Where were you? I thought we'd work on the essay for Defense together."

Harry looked up, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her. "Oh, hi, Hermione." He sounded tired. "I've almost got it done. Want to take a look at it for me?" He flicked his wand at a chair, scooting it over into her knees.

"Thanks," she said with a bit of a glare as she sat down. He shoved the essay over to her.

She gave it a cursory glance but was unable to concentrate on it; her heart was beating harder as she tried to decide whether to try and tell Harry now. But it would be awkward; aside from the fact that someone might overhear, she was afraid that she might actually cry, and she definitely didn't want to do that in front of half of Gryffindor Tower. She forced herself to at least check Harry's spelling. After making a couple of corrections, she flipped the parchment back toward him.

"Looks fine," she said with a tight smile.

"Cheers," he said and leaned back, obviously relieved. "I'm knackered. Ginny and Demelza came up with a new play. It's pretty cool, actually. See, first one of them flies—"

Hermione held up her hand. "Quidditch, Harry. You're trying to tell me about Quidditch." They had an agreement that he wouldn't try to explain Quidditch to her, and she in return wouldn't try to explain Ancient Runes to him, no matter how exciting they might be.

"Ah, right," he said with a sheepish look. "Forgot. But I really think it'll give us an edge on Hufflepuff." He looked like he was about to say more, but Hermione stood up.

"That's great, Harry. Really. I'm going to turn in now. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Yeah, me, too." He began to gather together his things.

Hermione was just about to leave when something occured to her that she'd been wanting to ask. "Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever find out where Draco Malfoy was going when he's not on the Map?"

Harry's expression darkened. "No. But I'm sure he's up to no good. Why?" he asked sharply. "Did you hear something?"

Hermione frowned. Now wasn't the time. "No. No, I didn't hear anything." That was the truth, at least. "If I do, you'll be the first to know. Good night."

Tomorrow, she thought on her way up to her room. Tomorrow, she would definitely tell him.

+++000+++000+++

End chapter


	22. Chapter 22: Ron's Birthday

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

Chapter 22

Ron's Birthday

The next day was a Saturday. Not just any Saturday, but the first day of March. It dawned a brilliant blue, and there was a hint of warmth in the air that promised Spring coming, despite the icicles still hanging from the eaves. Hermione felt that if there were any day to make a new beginning, this was it.

She had already decided to ask Harry to accompany her on a walk around the grounds, in order to get him alone to discuss the attack on Halloween. The beautiful weather gave her a perfect excuse. She was nervous but aching to tell about it, now that the opportunity was so close. She still didn't know exactly what she would say, but somehow, in the next few hours, the secret would be out.

And so it was with something akin to anticipation for the first time in months that she went down to breakfast, even making the effort to be a little early so that she could catch Harry before he ran off to Quidditch practice or tracking Malfoy.

However, it appeared that she had been a bit too eager, as there were only a handful of students at the Gryffindor table when she arrived, and Harry was not among them. Undaunted, she poured herself a cup of tea and reached for the toast.

By the time she had finished her second cup, she was beginning to get annoyed. Those boys were so lazy! Seamus, Dean, and Neville had already been and gone. She felt certain that Harry and Ron were still up in bed, or had possibly skipped breakfast all together (although that would have been very unlike either of them) and gone straight out to the Quidditch pitch.

When Ginny came down, Hermione asked her if she'd seen either of them, but of course she hadn't, so Hermione set off purposefully back up to Gryffindor Tower. Luckily, she ran into Seamus just as he was coming back out through the portrait hole, and he was able to tell her that neither Harry nor Ron were up in their dorm. A quick look around the common room revealed no trace of them, either, and so she went upstairs to get her cloak before heading outside.

Once again, she had to remind herself to calm down; she hadn't made any previous arrangments to meet with Harry, and so it was hardly his fault that she couldn't find him. It wouldn't do her any good to start screeching like a harridan and make a scene. Just invite him to a friendly walk in the fresh air, whenever he was done. That's all. It was just so frustrating: As if, now that she had decided to talk to someone about it, some mysterious power were conspiring against her, making it impossible for her to do so.

The feeling was redoubled when she arrived at the practice field and found the Slytherin team at practice. Thinking that maybe Harry and Ron were spying on the team, or on Malfoy in particular, she scoured the stands, walking completely around them twice, but could not find any sign of either of them. Of course, they were probably hiding under that stupid Invisibility Cloak. They must have seen her, too, walking around the field, but were purposely ignoring her. Well, three could play at that game! She stomped off back to the castle and holed up in her room, nursing her hurt feelings.

What had she been thinking anyway, wanting to tell Harry? It's not like he would actually care. Oh, he'd be interested in hearing about the Death Eaters, and would probably be full of righteous anger on her behalf, but he wouldn't understand. But still... it would have been nice not to bear the secret alone anymore. She swallowed over the sore lump that had risen in her throat and buried her face in Crookshanks' long orange fur.

+++000+++000+++

"I am not disagreeing with you. I am merely pointing out that I don't see how he could have done it."

"Then we must find out how, Severus. It was too close this time. If not for Harry's quick action—"

"One Weasley more or less," Snape muttered.

Dumbledore gave him a sharp look. "That was uncalled for."

Snape curled his lip. "A moot point at any rate. The boy will make a full recovery."

"It was very, very sloppy."

"I shall inform him to make certain it is a clean kill next time," Snape parried drily.

"This is no joke!" Dumbledore's expression was pained. "Severus. Please."

"Of course," Snape relented. It really was a serious situation. "You realize, however, there is only so much I can do. He refuses to cooperate. He does not trust me."

"There must be someone he confides in..."

"His only cronies are those two louts, Crabbe and Goyle. They may be useful for keeping away the rabble, but not for hatching plans of murder."

"Quite. Miss Parkinson?"

Snape made a dismissive gesture. "A past-time, nothing more."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on his care-worn face. "He reminds me very much of you, you know."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "In what way?"

"You also had no confidants at school. No one to share your plans, your dreams, your worries..."

Snape frowned. "No one to double-cross me, rat me out, blackmail me..."

"You are too cynical."

"Practical."

Dumbledore sighed. "If he does end up killing someone, even if by accident, I fear the shock of it will send him running to the other side, irrevocably perhaps. That is why I thought it so important that he make some sort of amends to Miss Ploppe. See that one error does not spell one's ruin."

"The payment was made, as far as I have been informed."

"A life taken is not so easy to recompense. That is why any means must be taken to prevent Mr Malfoy from accomplishing his task. Any means at all."

+++000+++000+++

Hermione debated whether or not to go down to lunch; she wasn't very hungry, and she wasn't much looking forward to seeing Harry now. Although he knew nothing of it, she felt, illogically, that he had let her down. But when Lavender and Parvati stopped by the room to drop off their bookbags, she couldn't muster the energy to put them off and found herself being dragged down to the Great Hall after all.

The meal was already in full swing when they arrived, but Hermione was puzzled to see, once again, no sign of either Harry or Ron. She began to get a bad feeling. At the same time, she didn't want to alarm anyone in case she was just being paranoid; the incident of her jumping to false conclusions during the Apparation lesson was still a sore point in her memory. So she kept silent but scanned repeatedly down the length of the table for a glimpse of red hair, other than Ginny's long mane. She also strained her ears to pick up any hint of Harry or Ron's names in the conversations around her, but even Lavender seemed to have other things on her mind as she discussed horoscopes with Parvati.

Finally, when Ginny got up, Hermione nipped after her and caught her just outside the door.

"Ginny, have you seen either Harry or Ron at all today?"she asked, trying not to sound concerned.

"You were looking for them already this morning. Didn't you find them?"

Hermione shook her head. "I think they were spying on the Slytherin practice this morning, but I never saw them."

Ginny's eyes got wide. "You don't think Malfoy—"

"It's possible," Hermione admitted, thinking back to the beginning of the year, when Malfoy had stomped on Harry's nose after finding him under the Invisibility Cloak in his compartment in the Hogwarts Express. "But both Harry and Ron?"

"He's got Crabbe and Goyle," Ginny pointed out. "Do you think we should go to Dumbledore?"

"Not yet. I don't want to get them in trouble if they're off on their own. Let's look around a bit more. If they don't show up for dinner, though—"

"Right." Ginny nodded. "I'll go check the hospital wing, just in case," she offered.

"Let me know if you find them, will you?"

"Of course." Ginny smiled. "What are friends for?"

Hermione felt slightly relieved as she made her way back up to Gryffindor Tower for her books. There was probably nothing to it. Still, Harry did have a penchant for getting into trouble, and this year had been surprisingly incident-free for him so far. He was about due for a dose.

When she topped the last staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower, she groaned inwardly to see Cormac McLaggen standing in front of the entrance already. She was about to duck back down the stairs to avoid running into him, but she was a bit too slow.

"Hermione!" McLaggen hailed her, holding up a hand in salutation and narrowly missing being hit by the Fat Lady's portrait as it swung open.

She gritted her teeth. "Hello, Cormac," she replied civilly but coolly and tried to step past him into the common room.

"Allow me," he said and grabbed her elbow, ostensibly to help her through the hole in the wall, which was, it must be admitted, somewhat awkward, especially for the larger students.

Without even thinking about it, she jerked her arm away as a feeling of disgust overcame her. "I can get in myself, thank you!" she snapped.

"It's no trouble," he insisted, but Hermione scrambled away from him and unfortunately tripped over the high threshhold on her way into the common room. She caught herself before she hit the floor, but she had the distinct impression that Cormac had put his hand on her bum; she couldn't quite be certain, though. Maybe she had just brushed it against the edge of the wall. She stood up and glared at him hard, though, just in case.

"No need to be nervous, gal," McLaggen said with a generous grin, once he was inside, too. "I'm just flesh and blood, same as you are." He gave her an appreciative look up and down.

Hermione's skin crawled and she turned quickly to go up to her room.

"Hey, you know," he said, catching up with her easily, "I was thinking of giving you another chance to make up for last time."

Hermione stopped and gave him an incredulous look. "You want to give me another chance? At what?"

"Why at me, of course! I know it was all a bit much at Sluggy's party; punch must've gone right to your head."

Hermione let out a sound of disbelief.

"But I know how eager you were to get together with me, after all, water under the bridge and all, why don't we go down to the pitch and you can watch me do a few rounds on my broom. I'll need to get back in practice if I'm to be the new Keeper." He winked at her.

"Of all the—" Hermione was very nearly at a loss for words, but she managed to come up with a few choice ones in the end. "I am not interested in watching you muck about on your broom. I am not interested in you at all. And I never wanted to go to Professor Slughorn's party with you. I only did because he forced me to have a date and I wanted to make Ron jealous!"

Without waiting for an answer, Hermione whirled around and ran to the girls' stairs. She was hot all over and didn't even know what she was doing any more. All she knew was that she needed to get away.

"What, Weasley?" McLaggen bellowed after her. "That little titch? Couldn't Keep his way out of a paper bag!"

Hermione was already halfway up the stairs when she made the connection. She ran back down and caught McLaggen at the bottom of the boys' stairs.

"What did you mean, you're the new Keeper? Ron's the Gryffindor Keeper. Unless you're switching over to the Slytherin team?" she asked nastily.

"Not a bit of it! Your lad was taken up to the hospital wing early this morning," he informed Hermione with a smirk. "Looks to be out for weeks. Months, maybe."

+++000+++000+++

She'd known it, she'd just known something was wrong. How could she have ignored the warning signs? Ron and Harry would never miss two meals in a row! Hermione was beyond tears as she raced to the infirmary, a sharp dread slicing through her. Why, oh why, did the staircases have to be so contrary today! She didn't wait until the last one had swung into place, but leapt across the gap, nearly twisting her ankle as she landed. She limped the rest of the way, imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios, most of which involved Draco Malfoy wearing a black-hooded robe.

As she came down the final corridor, her fear was drowned out in a fleeting moment by a surge of anger and betrayal. Ginny was sitting outside the hospital entrance, whispering with Harry. So that's how it was going to be. Of course no one would bother telling her what was going on. Her first instinct, once again, was to turn around right there and leave, but she was torn by guilt and the feeling that if Ron did die, she would never be able to forgive herself for having been selfish at this moment. And so she shoved down her pride and walked the last few yards stiffly, concentrating on not favoring her still-throbbing foot.

"Oh, Hermione!" Ginny at least had the good form to look embarrassed. "I was just about to come find you." Hermione resisted the very strong temptation to laugh. "Harry was just telling me what happened—"

"I couldn't leave him," Harry explained, his jaw set and looking down at his hands. "He could have died."

"And you didn't think any of us would like to know what happened?" Hermione said sharply. "That anyone else was worried?"

"It's not like you could have done anything," Harry said.

"Harry saved him!" Ginny interjected.

"Of course," Hermione said. Harry saved Ron, but he couldn't save her. "What happened anyway?" She still hadn't sat down. Not that either Harry or Ginny had offered her a seat.

"He was poisoned!" Ginny cried. "In Slughorn's office—"

In a few words, Harry outlined what had happened. At first, Hermione thought it served Ron right for taking the Chocolate Cauldrons, but when she heard how close it had been, and that it was only due to Harry's quick thinking and the close proximity of the bezoar that Ron was still alive, she actually felt dizzy and had to let Ginny guide her down to the bench beside her.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Ron had been seconds from death. What had happened to her... at least she had never actually been in any mortal danger. The Death Eaters had never planned to kill them. Suddenly, the thought occurred to her: "Well, do you know who did it? Were they trying to get Slughorn?"

"That's what we don't know," Harry admitted. "Dumbledore and Snape were questioning me and Slughorn for hours this morning."

"Snape? Why him?" Hermione was immediately suspicious of Death Eater involvement.

"He's still a Potions master, isn't he?" Harry asked guilelessly. "Suppose Slughorn was too shaken up to analyze the poison. He said what it was called – I don't remember the name. Toxicity Class M, though."

"Kills within thirty seconds of ingestion," Hermione recited tonelessly, staring at the opposite wall. "No known antidote."

Harry and Ginny continued to speculate and go over that morning's events, but Hermione tuned them out. She'd been selfish and petty. Being rude and frosty toward both Ron and Lavender, just because they were flirting with each other. It's not like she had any claim on Ron. She should be happy for him! Happy that he found someone who was fun and innocent, not moody, irritable, and tainted like her. Not just physically tainted, either; she bore a spot on her soul that would never go away, a darkness that she had to shield others from. She knew that she'd changed, fundamentally, since Halloween. She'd become cynical, suspicious, pessimistic. That was why she didn't have any friends left. She'd driven them all away. But although she wanted to be friendly again, wanted to be part of the laughter and the flirting, the effort would have ruined her. She just didn't have it in her. Because she knew it would all be a lie.

But what if Ron had died... had died believing that she, Hermione, begrudged him his happiness? She didn't want his last memory of her to be of a snotty, bitter hermit. She would be better. She swore it to herself. She would try to be a good friend again.

Harry's mention of Snape in the context also brought a most curious thought to her mind: What if Snape died? What if he died, right now, thinking that she hated him? Her immediate reaction was, it would serve him right. He should rot in Hell and suffer his punishment for what he had done to her... and everyone else (for she was certain she wasn't the first person he had injured grievously). But, at the same time, she didn't want him to simply suffer an eternity of agonies. He should feel sorry. The purpose of the Hell fires (or whatever they did to bad souls these days) should be to make the perpetrators feel what they had inflicted on others, so that they would gain compassion and regret their deeds.

That is what Hermione wanted, she realized with a bolt of insight: She wanted Snape to feel bad about what he had done. That was what bothered her most about the aftermath: His seemingly complete lack of remorse, his (and Dumbledore's) repeated attempts at justifying his actions to her. She didn't actually care about him going to Azkaban or being publicly pilloried as a rapist and who knows what else. She wanted him to be racked by conscience, to experience the agony of knowing that he had irreparably harmed another human being and could never make it right again. That is what she wanted. And in order for that to work most efficaceously, she couldn't hate him. Because if she hated him, then he would feel justified in hating her back. She didn't want him to feel sorry for her; she didn't want his pity. She wanted him to feel sorry about himself, about his actions, instead of hiding behing some sort of fabricated construction about duty and sacrifice. And then he could die. And spend the rest of eternity regretting.

+++000+++000+++

"How did you do it?" Snape began with the direct approach. The boy hadn't denied possession of the Polyjuice Potion, and had almost confided in him the last time. Maybe the shock of nearly having killed Weasley was enough to nudge him that last bit of the way into Snape's confidence.

"How'd I do what?" Draco asked sullenly.

Snape sighed. It wasn't going to be that easy. "How did you very nearly kill Weasley?"

"By shagging his sister," Draco said, looking at his nails. Then he grimaced. "No. On second thought, scratch that. That would very nearly kill me. Filthy blood traitors."

"You don't need to prove your loyalties to me, Draco. I'm not trying to get you into trouble. As always, I am merely trying to help you." Snape spoke with exaggerated patience.

Draco glared at him. "How is it going to help me for everyone to think that I made an attempt on Weasley's life? One side will hate me for trying, and the other will hate me for failing miserably."

"It was a miserable attempt," Snape agreed. "Messy and ill-regarded. Because you weren't trying to kill Weasley, were you? You were after the Headmaster. The question is, how did the poison end up in a bottle of mead in Professor Slughorn's office?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on! I'm kidding here! Obviously I had nothing to do with it! I don't even have access to Slughorn's office. And there's no way I could have gotten poison into the castle anyway! If I look at all the trouble I had with just that bit of Polyjuice—"

The Polyjuice! Snape could have hit himself. He whirled around and dragged Draco out of his chair by the neck of his robes. "Where is that bottle?" he snarled.

Draco had gone white as a sheet. "Wh—What bottle?" he stammered.

"What bottle," Snape muttered, "the Polyjuice, you imbecile! Where is the Polyjuice?"

"In my quarters, locked up in my trunk..." Draco looked utterly confused. Either he was very, very good, or... But Snape couldn't take the chance.

"We're going to get it." Snape pulled Draco along, striding quickly out of his office. "Now."

Draco's protests at Snape's rough treatment fell on deaf ears all the way down the hallway, although they both composed themselves enough to march straight through the Slytherin common room and up to Draco's dorm in bitter silence.

Snape sent Blaise, who was reading on his bed, out of the room before he had Draco open his trunk to retrieve the heavy brown bottle. A single glance revealed that about a third of the potion was gone.

"What did you use this for?" Snape demanded as he swirled the thick mixture around.

"I didn't use it," Draco retorted, having recovered some of his attitude.

"Don't lie to me, Draco," Snape said in a dangerous tone.

Draco stood his ground and looked Snape in the eye. "I didn't use it."

Snape's wand hand twitched. It would be so easy...

"Go ahead," Draco said defiantly, as if he had read Snape's own thoughts. "I have nothing to hide. I never used it. I told you, it was for a lark. One of the seventh-years wanted some to use with his girlfriend. I didn't ask for any more details. It was easy for me to get – well, fairly easy—" he amended, "and now he owes me a favor. You never know when that will come in handy." He set his jaw, daring Snape to doubt the story.

It was probably true, too, Snape considered. It would stand up to a test of Legilimency. Although it was also probably true that Draco had used the Polyjuice himself for some other purpose. But what could that be? Could he have impersonated Slughorn? Not that morning, anyway; Horace had been under his and Dumbledore's scrutiny for well over the hour-long duration of Polyjuice Potion. Earlier, then, could Draco have used it to get into Slughorn's quarters to poison the mead? But that wouldn't make sense... simply looking like Slughorn wouldn't give him access to the man's personal passwords and wards. Or had Draco been trying to kill Slughorn, so that he could impersonate him and thus get close to Dumbledore? Something like what Crouch had done two years earlier? Not a bad idea, in principle... Perhaps Potter had saved not only Weasley that morning, but Slughorn as well, bursting in unannounced as he had. That is, all assuming that what he held in his hands was actually straight Polyjuice Potion, and not spiked with a certain Class M poison. It really had been clever of Draco to bring it in privately like that. He, Snape, had been sloppy the first time, not running a full analysis of the contents. He'd been overconfident, relying on his expert senses of sight and smell for identification. This time, he wouldn't make the same mistake.

"I will be taking this with me," Snape announced, pocketing the bottle in question.

"You already checked that!" Draco protested.

"Nevertheless. There is a poisoner about the castle. I wouldn't want you to fall his next victim," Snape said with a smirk.

There being nothing more that Draco could say to that, he settled for giving Snape an icy glare as he left.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione hung back behind Harry and Ginny when Madam Pomfrey finally let them in to see Ron. He looked terribly pale. She wondered whether it had hurt, whether he had been scared, whether he had realized at all what was happening, and was overcome by a wave of compassion, which she immediately turned off. She couldn't let herself have any feelings like that. It would end up hurting too much.

Harry and Ginny took the two chairs on either side of the bed, leaving Hermione standing at the foot. Madam Pomfrey explained that she'd given Ron essence of rue to increase his liver function, and that it had put him right to sleep. He wouldn't be waking up until tomorrow, so it wouldn't do them any good to try and talk to him.

Still, none of them wanted to leave. Just standing there, seeing Ron breathing, reassured Hermione that he would really live. As if he would disappear when removed from her sight. It was a bit like a baby who hadn't yet learned the lesson of the permanence of objects. She tried to imagine what it would be like if Ron were gone, but the thought caused another black hole to open up in her mind which she didn't want to come any closer to. Just thinking it might make it come true.

The quiet atmosphere was interrupted shortly by the arrival of Ron's brothers.

"This isn't how we imagined handing over our present," said George in as serious a tone as Hermione had ever heard from him. He laid a big, gaudily-wrapped box on the nightstand before sitting down next to Ginny.

Oh! It was Ron's birthday! It had completely slipped Hermione's mind. She felt worse than ever. No one seemed to be dwelling on the fact that it was Ron's birthday, though; the twins wanted to hear Harry's story right away. The conversation quickly turned to speculation on who the poison had been meant for, and who might have been the perpetrator. None of their theories made much sense to Hermione, especially the one that said a third party had been using Slughorn to get the poisoned mead to Dumbledore.

"If that's true, the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," Hermione said, finally breaking her silence. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself."

Just at that moment, as if her voice had triggered something in him, Ron groaned in his sleep and mumbled something that sounded very much like Hermione's name. Everyone froze. Hermione clenched the brass rail at the foot of the bed and strained her ears, trying to make out what else he was saying, but it was all incoherent. After a few seconds, Ron flopped over onto his other side and commenced snoring. Hermione looked around at the four faces, all now staring at her. She felt very small and unworthy.

Mercifully, she was spared having to say anything at that point by the infirmary doors being flung open by Hagrid, followed shortly by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Once again, no one paid any attention to Hermione, and she began edging off, both not wanting to intrude on the family and feeling a big overwhelmed by all the sobbing and large bodies. Coincidentally, Harry and Hagrid also took the arrival of the Weasleys as their cue to leave, and Hermione found herself in short order standing outside the hospital wing with the two of them.

She didn't really want to be invited down to Hagrid's place for a nightcap. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She didn't think she could handle hearing Harry go through his hero story one more time, and truthfully, she was utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. She mumbled something about needing to get up to bed, and Hagrid offered to walk them up, 'just in case', which she couldn't very well turn down. At least no one expected her to say anything; she just listened as Hagrid and Harry re-hashed the attack and discussed what new security measures might be necessary.

Hermione was curious about this point, despite herself: Dumbledore had told her that, after the attack on Halloween, he had tightened security. If that was true, then the poisoner had to be someone who lived in the castle; possibly even someone who could make the poison themselves. One didn't need to be a genius to count the number of candidates on a single finger, and she was surprised that his name hadn't come up in any of the discussions thus far. But what possible motive could Snape have? That Ron was his target was laughable; Harry made slightly more sense, but Snape could have killed him a dozen times over in more failsafe ways over the past six years; which left either Slughorn or Dumbledore. But the whole poisoning scheme was so haphazard and ill-conceived that it couldn't possibly have been thought up by Snape. Which brought them right back to square one.

Hermione hadn't really been listening closely to what Hagrid was saying, but his next statement made her blood run cold:

". . . the board o' governors'll be talkin about shuttin' us up fer good."

Hermione stopped in her tracks. That was it. It was a Death Eater plot to shut down the school. That had been what they wanted to do with the Halloween attack. Now they were resorting to random attacks: The necklace; the poison. There was no specific target. They were willing to take into account that purebloods might be sacrificed. And all to get Harry out from under Dumbledore's protection. It did all have to come back to Harry. But it wasn't all about protecting Harry. Even with Harry safe, the Death Eaters could do a lot of psychological damage to the British wizarding world by shutting down Hogwarts. It was what she and the other girls had tried so desperately to prevent by keeping the Halloween attack secret.

"Gotta see it from their point o' view," Hagrid went on. "I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn' it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent. 'S'no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn —"

Hermione looked up at Hagrid sharply. He had a sheepish look on his face, as if he had let something slip that he oughtn't have. Although Harry pressed him, Hagrid didn't let on much more than that, other than the fact that Dumbledore and Snape had apparently argued because Snape didn't want to do something that Dumbledore wanted him to. Hermione was burning to know what that might be, but there was no time to draw more out of Hagrid, as Filch showed up at that very moment, threatening to put Harry and Hermione in detention for being out of their dorms so late. Hagrid was only just able to distract him long enough for Hermione and Harry to escape up to Gryffindor Tower.

Once they got there, Harry didn't seem to be in a talkative mood any more, which suited Hermione fine. He was probably exhausted, too. She bade him goodnight and fled up to her dorm. Lavender and Parvati were already asleep, and Hermione did her utmost not to disturb them, forgoing even brushing her teeth and only removing her outer robes before slipping under the covers.

Her brain was a-whir with facts, theories, and suppositions as she stared up at the darkened ceiling. She wasn't safe here. No one was. The next attack could come from any quarter. Had it been Snape who'd planted the poison? Or Draco? Or another hidden Death Eater? It wouldn't do her any good to go to Dumbledore with her theory; he knew about Snape and Draco's affiliation. He would just say he was sorry that it had happened, and he'd try to close that leak as well. Damn him! He'd almost had a life on his conscience! What if Ron had died! Hermione clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. The pain gave a release to her anger.

Then there was the disturbing news of Dumbledore and Snape's argument. It was clear that they hadn't been talking about anything having to do with the running of the school. Hagrid had said he came upon Snape and Dumbledore outside, near the forest; they had obviously gone there so as not to be overheard by anyone in the castle. And so, logically, they must have been discussing something illicit, something that one or the other of them, possibly both, didn't want to be caught involved in. Dumbledore was trying to get Snape to do something that Snape didn't want to do; it must be pretty bad, considering all the things that Snape had already willingly done. He'd done everything but murder, as far as she knew. But Dumbledore wouldn't ask Snape to kill anyone. Would he? Dumbledore may have accepted Snape's role in the Halloween attack after the fact, but he hadn't sent him out that night knowing what would happen. He may have asked Hermione not to expose Snape so that some larger plans could go forward, but those larger plans didn't involve murder... did they? Was that what Snape was refusing to do? Was that were he drew the line? But it was crazy: Who in the world would Dumbledore want Snape to kill? Not Voldemort; that had to be Harry, according to the prophecy. Was it connected to the poison? Had Dumbledore told Snape to put the poison in the mead? But why? It was so frustrating; she couldn't make the connections.

Hermione pushed the thoughts of Snape and Dumbledore away for the time being. She didn't have enough information. She could combine and theorize until her brain hurt, but that wouldn't make Ron better. Ron. Her heart would have broken when he said her name that evening, if it hadn't already been broken months ago.

Poor, innocent Ron. It should have been a comfort to her that it was her name he had mumbled, and not Lavender's. It should have caused her heart to leap for joy, the proof that she was the one he sought when his need was greatest. But it only caused her more sorrow; she could never be the one he wanted her to be, the one she might have been but for what had happened to her. Hopefully, he would just go back to Lavender when he woke up, and forget all about her. It would be better for them all.

+++000+++000+++

One error does not spell one's ruin. Perhaps not. But it can very well direct the course of one's life. And was his life not ruined?

Snape stared into the fire flickering languidly in the grate. For him it had been. All his dreams, his plans, swept away in one awful night: Halloween, 1981. From that moment, he had continued living only for others. His only thought to make some sort of atonement for what he had done, causing the deaths of two people. And now his penance was almost complete.

A log popped loudly, sending an ember out onto the carpet. Snape watched it glow briefly, then fade into blackness.

+++000+++000+++


	23. Chapter 23: Breakthrough

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 23**

**The Breakthrough**

Lavender was now officially not talking to Hermione. She was convinced that Hermione had purposely withheld the information about Ron's poisoning from her, so that she, Hermione, could spend the entire day alone with him in the hospital wing. Hermione tried to point out that she hadn't even been allowed in until the evening, and even then, she hadn't spoken to Ron at all; no one had, in fact, he had been unconscious during their entire visit. This did not appease Lavender, however. She'd had to hear about Ron from Romilda Vane, who had been pulled out of class for questioning regarding the Chocolate Cauldrons (she knew nothing about them having been spiked with any love potion, of course). Even Parvati had looked at Hermione askance when Lavender had confronted her the next morning.

Hermione's case wasn't helped much when Lavender demanded that Hermione keep away from Ron, and Hermione responded that, as a friend, she couldn't do that. Ron had nearly died. This was hardly the time for jealous spats. Hermione decided it would be best if she avoided the subject of Ron with Lavender altogether.

It had a way of coming round through the back door, though, as Harry caught up to her after Charms a couple of days later and, seeming more than a bit uncomfortable, asked what was up with Lavender.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, fearing she knew all too well what was about to come.

"It's just that..." Harry rubbed the back of his neck and got a sheepish look on his face. "She keeps asking me stuff. About Ron."

"What sort of 'stuff'?"

"Just stuff. Like whether he still likes her and how much longer he'll be in the infirmary, and what kind of sweets she should buy for him." Harry kicked at the flagstones with his trainers.

"Why doesn't she ask him herself?"

"I think..." He shrugged. "I think he keeps pretending to be asleep whenever she visits him."

Hermione laughed. "What? That's silly. Why would he do that?"

Harry caught Hermione's eye. "I don't know."

She got a squiggly feeling in her stomach, but faced Harry down. "I'm sure I don't know what you're implying, Harry," she insisted firmly.

"It was you he called for that night, not Lavender."

"You don't know that for sure. No one heard him clearly. And anyway, that could have meant anything. Maybe he was having a nightmare."

Harry pulled a face. "If you say so. Anyway, I just thought you might ... you know, want to visit him. Find out what's up with him and Lavender. She's your room-mate, after all."

"That doesn't make it any of my business," Hermione reminded him.

Harry exhaled hard and dropped all pretense. "Look... Just go and visit him. He asks about you every time I see him. I can't keep making excuses for you."

"I never asked you to!"

"I'm not doing it for your sake, but for Ron's. It hurts him that you won't visit him."

"I will. I've been busy."

"That's what I told him."

"I mean, I am still his friend."

"Of course."

"But I'm not trying to be his girlfriend."

"I didn't think you were."

"Just so it's clear. He's better off with Lavender."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. I mean, just what I said. He and Lavender are good together. I'm not interested in him like that."

"Okay. So you'll visit him tonight?"

"Sure," Hermione agreed, feeling that Harry had maneuvered her into that very nicely. "If there's still time after I finish my homework," she added.

"Great," Harry said with a big smile.

Hermione watched him head off down the corridor with the distinct feeling that she'd been had. She just hoped to God that Ron wasn't in on this set-up. She really wasn't interested in Ron as a boyfriend, and she really did want him and Lavender to get along. But it was also true that they had been the best of friends for five years, and, as a friend, she really should pay him a personal visit in the hospital wing. And besides, if he knew what had happened to Hermione on Halloween, he would run back to Lavender faster than you could say Amortentia.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione put all thoughts of a visit to Ron out of her head for the rest of the day. She might have conveniently forgotten it altogether if Lavender and Parvati hadn't come flouncing in to their room that evening, Lavender complaining that Ron had been asleep yet again when she'd tried to visit him just now, before promptly falling silent when she saw Hermione.

Hermione sighed to herself. This was silly. Ron needed to be set straight. And she needed to clear her conscience. There was only about an hour left before Madam Pomfrey would shoo all visitors out for the night anyway. She wouldn't have to stay for long.

Hermione cast a quick Impervius Charm on her homework – not that she didn't trust her roommates, but there had been that unfortunate incident with the perfume in fourth year – and slipped out of the room, leaving the two other girls to their discussion.

When she got to the hospital wing, she was unsurprised to see Ron sitting up in bed, scanning through a Quidditch Illustrated and munching on an apple. He must have figured that Lavender wouldn't be back so quickly, and dropped the pretense of being asleep. When he saw who his visitor was, he flipped the magazine shut and stuffed the core onto the already over-full night-stand.

"Hermione!" he said, clearly fighting not to smile too broadly.

"Hello, Ron." Hermione tried to project a friendly yet aloof air.

"Uh... Here, you can sit here." He leaned over to push a stack of magazines off the chair beside his bed.

"Thank you." She sat and smiled at him nervously. All of a sudden, she realized she had no idea what to say. She hadn't planned this at all. Ron smiled back, apparently equally ill at ease.

"So," Hermione said finally.

"Hi," he said, looking at her expectantly.

"It's ... good to see you doing better," Hermione said politely.

"Oh yeah, I'm loads better," Ron agreed. "Felt pretty grotty the first couple of days. Puked more than you'd believe," he informed her cheerfully.

"That's... great," Hermione said. "I mean about you being better. Not about the ... puking."

"Cheers. Too bad about me having to miss the game, though."

"The game? Oh... you mean Quidditch." Although she didn't particularly want to talk about Quidditch, it seemed a nice, safe subject. Better than Lavender, at any rate. "Yes, it's really too bad," she commiserated. "Did you know that Harry is going to put that oaf McLaggen in as Keeper?"

"I heard," Ron said glumly.

"Not that he'll hold a candle to you, of course," Hermione assured him.

"Really? He was awfully good at tryouts."

"Maybe, but you were better." She thought it high time they got on to something else; she didn't want him to re-live the Keeper tryouts too closely. "Well," she said briskly, "I just wanted you to know that everyone's looking forward to you coming back. Especially..." Her face grew hot and she looked away, feeling like the biggest busybody in Hogwarts, but it had to be done. "Lavender." She checked quickly to see Ron's reaction. Her stomach gave a little squeeze when she saw his smile freeze in place.

"Lavender?" he asked in a strange sort of voice.

"Yes, you know. Your girlfriend?"

Ron swallowed visibly and his smile faltered.

"I'm not really..." He looked down and started playing with the blanket. "I mean, yeah, I like Lav a lot. She's a great girl. But it's just not—" He looked at Hermione. "You know what I'm saying?"

Hermione panicked. She knew. She just knew what Ron was going to tell her. She had to stop him before he made a big mistake. And so, before she even had a chance to consider the consequences of what she was saying, she blurted out, "Ron, I was raped."

Her eyes got big. She wanted to take it back, but the words hung there in the air between them, forever defining their relationship from that moment forward. Her heart felt like it had skipped a beat before re-starting with a huge thud. The empty seconds dragged on like a lifetime.

Ron stared at her, his mouth still open with the rest of his previous sentence hanging there. He had his fists balled up in the blanket, twisting it around. Finally, he managed to scrape out, "What?" in a very small voice.

Hermione looked down at her hands. This was it. This was the end. He would never want to have anything to do with her after this. "I was raped," she repeated, very quietly. Saying it the second time was easier. Somehow, it made it more manageable to put it into those small words and have it spoken here, in this familiar place.

"What? When?! What—" He hardly seemed to be able to put a coherent thought together. Very probably, he couldn't.

"It happened a while ago. Last year."

"Bloody— Where was I? Why didn't you say anything? What happened?"

Hermione gathered her reserves. She was going to have to tell him. At least an edited version. She couldn't tell him about Snape. She still felt a sense of obligation to Dumbledore, or at least to whatever plans were brewing, not to jeopardize the outcome.

"It was Death Eaters. Voldemort made them kidnap us. Me and three other Muggleborns. No one knew. No one can know now, either. They did it to shut down Hogwarts. We kept it secret so that the school could stay open."

"I don't understand."

Hermione was irritated. Why did she have to explain everything to everyone, and especially to Ron. But, it was a role she was familiar with, and one that she couldn't turn down. Trust Ron to turn such a highly emotional conversation into something familiar and non-threatening. And so she explained how their silence thwarted Lord Voldemort's plot, just as if it were a lecture from class that he had failed to understand the first time round. She also told him about Sandy and Lisa and Oonagh, and made him swear not to tell anyone else. As she talked, Ron sat silently listening. Hermione at first wondered whether he even really realized what she was saying. What 'rape' meant.

Finally, though, when she had finished, Ron looked her steadily in the eye and announced, quite calmly, as if it were the only logical thing to say, "I'll kill him."

"Ron, you can't—I mean, they all had masks on. We couldn't see who they were." That much was true. She was not going to lie to him, if she could help it.

"It doesn't matter. I'll track him down, somehow, and kill him." Hermione knew that look. It was the same look he'd had when he'd made the decision to sacrifice himself in that crazy chess game their first year. A mixture of bravado, determination, and disbelief at his own audacity.

"That won't help, Ron," Hermione sighed, knowing full well that she wouldn't be able to dissuade him from doing what he thought was right.

"But I have to do something!" Looking at his distraught expression, Hermione realized that was his way of showing that he cared about her. That he wanted, somehow, to make it all right again for her. Only he couldn't ever make it right, and he knew it.

"Then help Harry get Voldemort. He's to blame. The others..." The thought of the chess game came back to her. "They were only pawns, just like us. It wasn't about their power or their pleasure. If they had refused, Voldemort would probably have killed them, or at the very least punished them somehow, and found some more loyal follower to take their place."

"But what they did to you--- God, Hermione, how can you try to excuse it?"

"I'm not excusing it," she said quietly, looking at her hands. "I'm just saying, I think the … perpetrators … I think they suffered, too. Can you imagine what it would be like, to have to hurt someone like that? What if you had to cast the Cruciatus on another student? Or worse?"

"If it was Malfoy, I don't think I'd have a problem with it," Ron answered darkly.

"But it wasn't Malfoy." At least, he hadn't been the one who had attacked her. "And even if it had been, he wouldn't willingly do something so hateful—"

"How do you know?" Ron interrupted. "They hate all Muggleborns!"

"I know, but… I don't think even Malfoy would take pleasure in it. Oh, sure, he likes calling other people names or scaring them, but he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. It's not like he hasn't had opportunities, either, and what's the worst he's ever done? Hexed my teeth. Dressed up like a Dementor."

"He nearly killed Harry with that stunt!"

"But he didn't mean to!"

"There you go again, trying to defend the bad guys!" Ron seemed quite distraught.

"I'm not! What I mean is... What he did was wrong, but he didn't _try_ to hurt Harry. He could have snuck up into the game on his broom – it was so stormy, no one would have seen him -- and cursed Harry—badly. But he didn't.

"When Umbridge was in charge, do you think she would have cared if he and his cronies on the Inquisitorial Squad had beaten up me, or Harry, or anyone they didn't like? Not a chance. He probably would have gotten an award for Special Services to the School. But he never did anything like that. He just called people names and deducted points."

"Alright, so Malfoy's a coward. But that's all kid stuff compared to what those bastards did to you! How can you sit there and be so calm about it?"

"I've had a lot of time to think about it, I guess. At first, I was just... numb, I guess. I didn't know how I was supposed to react, so I just tried to forget it and go on. But inside I was angry. Really, really angry. I think I let some of it out on you. I'm sorry."

"God—You're sorry? Don't be! I just wish you'd told me back then instead of waiting until now."

"Maybe I should have. I couldn't, though, I don't know, I think I thought that if I didn't tell anyone, it would make it not have happened." She smiled wanly. "Crazy, I know."

"It's not crazy. I don't know what I would have done if it'd been me. Probably offed meself or something..." He tried to make it a joke, but realized too late how terribly insensitive it was. And, quite possibly, accurate. "You didn't... I mean, obviously, you didn't, you're here, aren't you?"

"No, I didn't," she agreed, not wanting to tell him about that night on the Astronomy tower. Maybe another time.

"But... and now? How ..." Ron let his eye wander down over Hermione's body. She squirmed inside, but didn't flinch. Of course now he would be thinking of her naked, a Death Eater standing over her. He was quite possibly even imagining her being penetrated, wondering what position it had occurred in. She steeled herself for his next question, but was a bit nonplussed when it turned out to be nothing more threatening than: "How are you?"

A simple question. How could she possibly answer? An unwanted sob rose in her throat. She fought against it. She would not cry. She didn't want to pull Ron in any deeper emotionally.

"I'm okay, Ron," she struggled to say. "I'm going to be okay." She couldn't tell whether he believed her.

+++000+++000+++

Author's Note: I know it's a bit short, but I felt that was a good place to end it. Thank you so much for the very thoughtful and in-depth reviews, everyone. I feel like I have a lot to live up to with the rest of the story!


	24. Chapter 24: The Other Point of View

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 24**

**Seeing Things from the Other Point of View**

_Dear Hermione,_

_How are you? That's a dumb question, I know. __I don't know how else to start. I'm doing much better. The doctors at the hospital (the regular hospital, not St. Mungo's) found a medicine that's helping me a lot. I haven't had any seizures in 2 weeks. I still get tired a lot, though. I feel like a big, spoiled cat, lying about the house and dropping off to sleep whenever I feel like it! _

_I'm not coming back. I guess you knew that. I'm getting ready to sit my GSCEs in June. My parents registered me as being home-schooled. Now I really have to study to catch up!_

_Have you heard anything from Sandy? I didn't know she was pregnant. Sally told me. I guess that's one thing to be thankful for out of all this. That I didn't get pregnant, I mean. I don't know what I would have done._

_It's funny, you know, I don't know if it's the pills or some side-effect of the spells that were cast on me, but I hardly remember anything. Even the time I spent in the hospital is very fuzzy. It's like a dream I can't quite remember, except in bits and pieces sometimes. I guess that's a good thing, too. I do remember you visiting me a lot. We talked, didn't we? I don't remember what about. I enjoyed your visits. I wanted you to know that. _

_It would be wonderful if you could come and visit me sometime, when term is over. I'd like to keep in touch with you._

_Love,_

_Lisa_

Hermione carefully folded the note and slid it into her desk. She'd answer it later. Of course she would. Just not now. She had no words. It wasn't that she didn't like her, but she could feel Lisa's outstretched hand through the thin Muggle stationery, grasping for her, trying to pull her close and ensnare her in a ... friendship? Co-dependency? She didn't have anything more to give. She couldn't be whatever it was that Lisa was asking for. Maybe she wasn't asking for anything. Maybe she was just being polite.

It hadn't seemed like such a huge drain on her at the time, but telling Ron had drawn everything out of her and left her empty. It wasn't even that she'd said that much. Certainly no details. But the act of sharing the burden (yes, now Ron bore a part of it, would never be the same again) had left her with absolutely no interest in talking about it any more. It was as if a valve had been opened, and the pent-up anxiety over telling someone that had been building up over the past couple of weeks had been released, leaving that old, familiar hole. Only it wasn't the same hole. It wasn't something she had to avoid looking into because it was so deep and unfathomable; it was simply uninteresting. A jagged grey space, hanging flaccid in her soul.

It was funny how things had turned out. She'd sworn at the outset never to tell anyone. Then, when Teresa had suggested that she confide in one close friend she could trust, she'd chosen Harry. The Chosen One, ha. She'd thought he'd be more reasonable, less prone to fly off the handle. Best-laid plans. How in the world had she ended up spilling things to Ron, of all people? After she'd spent the better part of the last four months avoiding him in particular, because she had been afraid of disillusioning him regarding her. And then she'd told him specifically in order to disillusion him, to disabuse him of any notion he might have that she was still worthy of being the object of his affections. She wasn't sure, now, that she'd achieved that. Ron had handled it extremely well, once he'd gotten over the inital shock, she had to admit. There had been no sign of revulsion toward her, no sense of disgust. He'd taken his best stab at being supportive. And then Madam Pomfrey had popped round to tell her that visiting hours were over and shooed her out, Ron calling after her to come by again any time, to which she had given a noncommittal 'sure' in reply.

She couldn't go back. The whole thing would be too awkward. Should they talk about the state of Ron's liver, or the fact of Hermione having been raped? Quidditch or Death Eaters? Of course, she'd see Ron all too soon when he was released at the end of the week and he returned to Gryffindor tower. But at least there, there would be lots of other people around to run interference for her, not the least of whom would be Lavender. She didn't imagine that Lavender would allow Ron to be alone with Hermione for even a second, which suited Hermione just fine. Surely even Ron wouldn't bring it up in public. He had really seemed to understand – if not the depth of the horror of what had happened, then at least how sensitive and personal a topic it was. Not like being Petrified by a basilisk or bitten by a poisonous snake. Those were things to be marveled over and discussed in excited tones late into the night before the common room fire. A rape was a conversation-stopper, not for polite company, a dirty word that tainted the mouth and reputation of anyone who uttered it. Ron knew the difference.

He didn't go around chatting with everyone about Ginny's possession by Tom Riddle back in their second year, either. No one did. It was something so horrific and foul that everyone preferred not to even think about it having happened. Hermione had to admit that she hadn't given it more than a passing thought herself: Oh, Voldemort was the one making Ginny do those things. Well, that makes sense. Gosh, he's pretty scummy. That was about as far as most people got, if they even stopped to think about it at all.

But now that she thought of it more, what Riddle had done to Ginny amounted to nothing less than mind rape; he had invaded her mind without her permission, had taken it over by force so that he could use her for his purposes. How violated she must have felt! How utterly filthy and helpless! How can you scrub your mind clean of something like that? To know that someone else, a depraved and twisted monster, had been inside of your head... Hermione wondered that Ginny was as resilient as she seemed to be.

Had she also had nightmares? Had she lost her ability to trust others? Did she feel an unwilling disgust whenever someone tried to get close to her? She seemed to be happy and normal. She had had boyfriends; true, maybe a few more than most other girls her age, but all of the relationships had appeared outwardly healthy and age-appropriate. It was also true that it had happened four years ago. Ginny had been much younger then, pre-pubescent. Maybe her immature brain had just recovered that much more easily. Or maybe she bore her scars differently than Hermione did.

All of them had come out of it differently: Lisa, Sandy, Oonagh, Hermione ... All of them developing different strategies for coping. They were coping. She was coping. She hadn't felt like it for a long time, but Hermione looked at where she was now and saw that she was still functioning. She hadn't been destroyed by it. She had been changed, yes, but not destroyed.

+++000+++000+++

During dinner that evening, Hermione found herself sneaking glances at Ginny. She'd never really paid much attention to Ron's younger sister. She had her friends, and they didn't overlap with Hermione's at all. Scratch that. Ginny had lots of friends, was popular with both boys and girls. Hermione didn't have any friends other than Harry and Ron, and she didn't feel particularly close to either of them at the moment.

She might have been jealous of Ginny, but she'd never really wanted to be part of that whole social scene. She had been happy (well, not unhappy, at any rate) simply to go to classes, do what was expected of her, and not be distracted from pursuing her own interests. She'd sort of fallen in with Harry and Ron, but they didn't actually demand much from her. Aside from the few intense episodes of murder and mayhem they'd been involved in over the past five-and-a-half years, it wasn't like she spent every waking moment with them. Not like some of the girls tended to do with their cliques.

Hermione had never exactly felt that she was missing out on anything, but she had always been aware of the differences between herself and girls like Ginny in terms of popularity. But now, she watched Ginny with different eyes. Was she really enjoying the attention she got? Or was she putting on a good show to hide the damage inside? Hermione supposed that was one way to go: Pretend so hard that you're happy and full of warmth, that eventually you believe it yourself.

In any case, she didn't see any sign that Ginny was faking it, or that she might really be deeply insecure or unhappy. Hermione felt a slight bitterness at that. It would be typical: Not only was Ginny pretty and talented, but she was able to get over the awful experience with Voldemort seemingly without bearing any emotional scars.

She looked away quickly when she realized that Ginny had caught her watching her. Embarrassed, she got up, mumbling something about having homework to do, and left.

+++000+++000+++

It had been a bad night. Of course, it was never a good night when one was Summoned to a meeting of Death Eaters. But this one had been particularly horrible. He'd actually thought that the Dark Lord was going to kill Draco. Luckily, Narcissa hadn't been there, or he felt sure she would have added just that bit of screeching feminine emotion that would have pushed Voldemort over the edge.

Lord Voldemort did not exactly have a soft spot for expressions of maternal protectiveness.

As it was, he'd barely been able to restrain himself from coming to the boy's defense, in the end. The entire time, he'd been acutely aware of the burden of the Vow on him. As long as Draco was in no mortal danger, Snape felt no compunction to act. But if he knowingly allowed the youth to be killed, if he could have done something to prevent it, he felt no doubt that the Vow would claim its due. It wasn't that he would have minded dropping dead on the spot, per se; but if he were gone, he was all too aware of how vulnerable Dumbledore would be, and, by extension, Potter and the entire wizarding world. Again, not that he particularly cared what happened to Potter, but there was this whole bloody prophecy to be reckoned with. And he still – damn him for a sentimental fool – didn't want to let Dumbledore down.

As it was, Voldemort had settled for an unimaginative bout of Crucios and Legilimency, to ascertain whether Draco wasn't simply stalling for time on behalf the Order. Having assured himself that young Malfoy was simply incompetent and not a traitor, he'd sent a contingent out to bother the Montgomerys. The mother was well-placed in the Ministry, in addition to having a sizable fortune. Snape had been spared, though, given direction instead to take Malfoy back to Hogwarts and patch him up before lessons began in the morning.

Snape had had to Side-Along Draco, who was in no condition to Apparate, being only half-conscious, and now he was more or less dragging him the remainder of the way up to the castle.

He took the side entrance, which led directly down to the dungeons, then brought Draco to Snape's own private room and settled him on the settee before going to gather the necessary potions from his personal supplies.

When he returned, it looked as if Draco had slipped out of consciousness, or maybe he had merely fallen asleep.

"Draco! Wake up!" Snape snapped, pinching the boy's arm. He didn't want to have to call Madam Pomfrey into this.

Draco groaned, then gagged a bit. Snape stepped back, wand hovered to clean up whatever was about to happen before it hit his shoes. Draco was able to get his stomach under control, however, and turned onto his back, breathing shallowly.

"When you're quite ready, sit up and drink this," Snape ordered, holding out a small green vial.

Draco merely groaned again in reply.

"It won't get any better like that. This is an analgesic and antiemetic potion of my own making. I have found it adequate. Here."

Draco reached out his hand to take the vial, bringing it to his lips with shaky fingers. He managed to get most of it in; a thin dribble of the clear liquid ran down his chin onto his robes unchecked.

"You may rest there while I clean up. I expect you to be gone when I return."

"Help..." Draco burbled.

"That is all the help you will receive from me tonight. You must be back in your dormitory by sunrise, or there will be questions." Snape regarded the pitiful wreck of a young man with distaste. At the same time, he realized with a start that this exact scene had been played out already, twenty years earlier; only that time, he had been the miserable, prostrated figure, and it had been Lucius Malfoy with the ready potion and meagre sympathy.

"No... help... Mother," Draco managed weakly.

"Your mother is in no danger, Draco," Snape said with a weary sigh. Somehow, she had managed to walk the thin line between the two sides without drawing fire from either one. A consummate Slytherin.

"No... please!" Draco righted himself, wincing at the dizziness that was no doubt gripping him at the moment. "I can't do it. You know it. You have to protect my mother."

"It will not come to that."

"It will! He'll kill her to get back at me!"

"No, he will not," Snape insisted sharply, although privately he thought that perhaps the Dark Lord might just. Not personally, perhaps; but the order could well be given to someone who wanted desperately to prove their value to the Death Eater organization. Or to someone whose loyalty needed to be tested. Narcissa was nothing to Voldemort. Killing her would break Lucius forever. But it might just have the opposite effect on Draco. If Voldemort killed his mother, Draco was young and reckless enough to try and exact revenge; it might be just what he needed to send him running to Dumbledore's lap.

"Take the Vow! Swear you'll protect her!" The potion seemed to be taking effect: Draco was steadier now, following Snape with fiery eyes.

"I have always taken care of your family, Draco!" Snape said. "What I did for your mother was a special circumstance, a personal favor, but had no effect on my actions then or since. I would have helped you either way, you know that. You do not need to exact a mortal Vow from me to assure yourself of my loyalties."

"I know, I know," Draco said miserably. "I'm sorry, I just don't know what else to do."

Was this the moment? Could he suggest that Draco defect, ask the Order for protection? It would mean exposing himself. But it might just save Draco.

"You don't need to do it, Draco," Snape began, trying to speak with the gentleness and compassion that he had heard in the past from Dumbledore; it came out sounding merely stilted and cold.

"What do you mean?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"If you don't have it in you... It could be arranged... Someone else might ..." Blast it all to pieces! He wasn't prepared for this conversation.

"What could be arranged? A convenient accident? Is that what you're getting at?"

"Something like that," Snape murmured.

"What do you think I've been doing all this time?" Draco exploded. "I've been trying to come up with an accident! It's not that easy, you know! Can't exactly walk up to him during breakfast and drop the poison in his cup, can I? I'm sure you could, but it doesn't do any good if I'm not the one to arrange it. You saw what he did to me tonight. He can read my thoughts! He'll know if I didn't do it. He'd punish me and my mother anyway, even if Dumbledore dies and I wasn't the one who arranged it, no matter how it ends up being done.

"Just... forget it. Thanks for the potion," Draco said bitterly as he stood, tossing the empty vial at Snape.

_Oh, that went exceedingly well_, Snape thought sourly to himself after Draco had left. At least he'd managed not to rack up another Unbreakable Vow to his name.

The irony of his position was not lost on him. He was supposed to be both the carrot and the stick to Draco, Dumbledore and Malfoy, the caring mentor and the heartless general who kept sending the wounded soldiers back to the front line. He was comfortable with neither role.

Thinking of the repetition and reversals of roles, he wondered for a moment how Dumbledore saw himself in all this. To Snape, he had always seemed consummately self-assured, very nearly to the point of arrogance, yet possessed of a very real compassion, a trait that Snape found himself lacking completely. At the same time, however, there was something of the heartless general in him as well. He knew what he was asking of Severus; what he had asked of him already, and of others, too. The Prewett boys, the Longbottoms, even Potter himself. Was he uncomfortable with that role? Did he agonize over the things he'd done? Had he also spent all or nearly all of his adult life trying to make up for follies in his youth? ...And finally, if Dumbledore's life was not really all that different from Snape's own... did that mean, were Snape to survive this endeavour, that he would end up asking his own protege, Draco Malfoy perhaps, to end his life at some point in the future?

Maybe Dumbledore was as tired as Snape was already. Possibly he was looking forward to the release of death, much as Snape was. No more obligations. No more Vows, no more fools to protect, no more horrendous tasks to be undertaken, no more murders, no more justifications or intrigues or hiding or lies; no more pretending. Freedom.

Seen like that, it was, after all, the least he could do.

+++000+++000+++

_Author's note: Draco's fears were obviously unfounded. Voldemort didn't check his memories to see whether he was the one to AK Dumbledore.__ It was enough that Draco had arranged for the invasion of Hogwarts. At least as far as I recall DH. _

_Please don't jump all over me for saying that Dumbledore has real compassion. I believe that he does, that he does feel and suffer along with those whom he puts in a difficult situation. (Com-passion = suffer with) That is the big difference between a Dumbledore and a Voldemort, to whom other people are truly pawns in every way, right down to him believing that they are as emotionless and unable to suffer as are pieces of wood or stone. Voldemort is a sociopath who has a complete inability to comprehend the fact of emotion in others and quite probably in himself, either. Dumbledore may also use others as pawns, but I think that he has a heart and feels every blow keenly. However, he is a Gryffindor, not a Hufflepuff. He is not ruled by his emotions. Remember the motto he and Grindelwald came up with: For the greater good. I think he is still living by that. And 'greater' means the big picture. People may get hurt or killed in the process._


	25. Chapter 25: After the Quidditch Match

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 25**

**After the Quidditch Match**

"He'll be all right, Ginny, you know he always is." Hermione sounded more certain than she was. She'd heard the impact of the bat on Harry's skull all the way down in the stands.

"I know he will," Ginny said firmly, not slowing her strident pace. "Madam Pomfrey's patched him up after worse than that. I'm still going to kill him."

"He's not worth it, Ginny. Leave Professor McGonagall to deal with McLaggen."

"Oh, I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about Harry. I'll kill him for having let that ape on the team in the first place!"

They'd reached the hospital wing now. Hagrid was standing guard at the door, not letting anyone in. He had just turned away Romilda Vane and one of her dorm-mates when Hermione and Ginny approached.

"I'm sorry, girls," Hagrid said to Hermione and Ginny regretfully, glancing nervously at the two denied fourth-year girls, who were watching them from a short distance away. "Madam Pomfrey says no visitors." He looked truly pained to have to say no to them, twisting his giant handkerchief into a painful-looking knot.

Hermione and Ginny looked at each other. They were obviously both thinking the same thing. "All right," Ginny sighed. "Thanks anyway, Hagrid."

They turned and wandered slowly away. Romilda sneered at them as they passed: "Rules are rules, even for you."

Ginny's hands balled up, but Hermione caught her in time. "Just keep walking," she hissed, grabbing Ginny by the elbow.

They went down one flight of stairs and then slipped into an alcove. "How long do you figure?" Ginny asked in a low voice.

"Five minutes, tops," Hermione answered. "Less if Hagrid starts talking about his Skrewts."

Ginny giggled. Hermione watched her, marveling once again at the other girl's resilience. She'd never have guessed, seeing her now, that four years ago, she'd been at death's door, her life forced drained nearly to the last drop, her mind and body commandeered by a psychopath.

Ginny felt Hermione's eyes on her. "What?" she asked uncertainly.

"Nothing," Hermione said quickly, looking away.

Ginny was silent for a while, then said in a soft voice, "You fancy him, don't you."

Hermione looked sharply at Ginny. "Who?"

"Harry."

Hermione nearly burst out laughing, but Ginny bore such a pained expression that she quelled the impulse.

"Harry? No, seriously, Ginny, I don't—"

"It's okay," Ginny said, and Hermione could tell she was trying to be upbeat. "You're best friends, after all. He fancies you, too, I'm certain of it. The way you're always putting your heads together in the common room—"

"Ginny, stop," Hermione said, frowning. "I don't fancy Harry. Not like that, anyway. You're right, we're good friends. But that's it. I don't fancy anyone at all. And he certainly doesn't fancy me. He's too busy with ... other things," she finished lamely, realizing that she didn't know for sure how much about the Horcruxes and other things Ginny had been told.

"Oh." Ginny seemed at a loss for what to say to that. "Well, if you did, you could tell me, you know. I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Thanks, I think. I mean... It's not like you fancy him, or anything, do you?" The way that Ginny had asked about it just now was giving Hermione that impression, even though as far as she knew, Ginny was still together with Dean.

"Me? Oh, no," Ginny said lightly. "I was... thinking of someone else who might be interested in who you fancy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Hermione. You're not stupid. You know that my brother's got a thing for you."

"Which one?"

"Ron, obviously!"

"Don't be silly, Ginny, Ron's with Lavender."

"He may be swapping spit with her, but he's only doing it to get back at you for Viktor Krum."

"What?!"

"You know there were those rumours at the beginning of the year about you and Viktor."

"You mean two years ago."

"No, I mean at the beginning of this year. Well, maybe not right at the beginning. I don't remember exactly when. They were saying you'd been... you know..." Ginny raised her eyebrows and gave Hermione a mischievous grin.

Hermione's stomach sank. She did remember. Parvati and Lavender had asked her about it. It had been just about a week after Halloween. She'd figured out that someone had started a rumour about her sleeping with an older man, and that someone was more than likely a certain blond Slytherin, twisting the Death Eater rapes into some sort of sick joke.

"That's not... It isn't true," Hermione managed to rasp out over her suddenly bone-dry throat.

"Really? Too bad." Ginny shrugged carelessly. Then a sudden idea struck her. "Or was it someone else?"

"No!" Hermione immediately denied it. "There was nothing. No one. It was just a stupid rumour. Malfoy was trying to sully my reputation."

Now it was Ginny's turn to frown. "Malfoy? Why?"

"No reason," Hermione said. For some reason, she started to panic. Whatever had possessed her to mention Malfoy? "Same as always," she improvised. "Envy and prejudice. Who knows. Look, can we just forget it?"

Ginny didn't seem entirely convinced, but agreed to let it rest. "Anyway, it doesn't matter whether it's true or not. Ron thinks it is, and that's why he's doing his best to make up for lost time with Lavender."

"He told you that?"

"Not in so many words, no, but when we were home over Christmas, he more or less said something to the effect of, 'If Hermione can shag Viktor, why shouldn't I have a little fun with Lavender?' Why didn't you come to the Burrow over Christmas, anyway?"

"I wasn't invited," Hermione said, trying not to make it sound reproachful. "And he's right, why shouldn't he?"

"Because it's not really her that he fancies. He's just using her for practice. And if I'd known you wanted to come, I would have invited you. I didn't know you and Ron were on the outs by then."

"We weren't 'on the outs'. I suppose he just didn't think of it. He's only a bloke, you know."

Ginny laughed. "Truer words were never spoken. I suppose that's all that's wrong with Dean, too."

"What do you mean? How are things going with Dean?" Hermione welcomed the opening to move away from the subject of Ginny's youngest brother and his possible feelings for Hermione.

"Oh... fine," she answered in way that made Hermione prompt futher: "Really?"

"Yeah... Well, I did kind of launch into him for laughing about Harry getting hit earlier."

"He what?"

"He was waiting for me outside the locker room. He was laughing about what great aim McLaggen had. I know he was just kidding, but it really got to me. I let him have it about how insensitive he was being."

"Ouch." Hermione winced.

"He was really being a Class-A git." Ginny was fuming now.

"I agree with you, for what it's worth."

"Thanks. Think it's safe to go back up now?"

"It can't hurt to try."

The two girls went back upstairs, this time checking around the corner first that the corridor was empty before dashing down to Hagrid's post.

"Now, you know I'm not s'posed ter—" he began, shaking his head regretfully.

"We're not here to see Harry, Hagrid," Ginny assured him. "We're here to see Ron." She gave Hermione a sly look that made Hermione's blood freeze. She'd completely forgotten about Ron still being in the hospital wing! She also didn't like the way it felt like Ginny was trying to set her up, but she couldn't very well say anything without ruining their chances of getting in to check on Harry.

"Yeh're... Oh!" Hagrid's face lit up in understanding. "'Course, he's in there, too, i'n't he? An' yeh're his sister, an' yeh're his..." He winked at Hermione. "'course you can go in an' see him." He looked up and down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear. "In yeh go then, only don' stay too long now." He pushed the door to the infirmary open just wide enough for Ginny and Hermione to slip in.

"Thanks, Hagrid, we won't."

Inside, Hermione suddenly felt shy, and hung back. Ron was awake, but lying with his back to the door, his attention focused on the bed beside him, which was surrounded by a white curtain. It was very quiet.

"Do you think everything's..." Ginny whispered to Hermione, suddenly white-faced.

At the sound of her voice, Ron turned and saw them. He sat up, straightened his pyjama shirt self-consciously, and ran his hand through his shaggy hair before waving them over, indicating that they should be quiet.

"What's going on?" Ginny whispered as soon as they were close enough to him.

"It looked bad," Ron said soberly, glancing nervously at Hermione. She shrank back, wishing she hadn't come after all. "Lots of blood. I haven't heard a sound out of him. No groaning, nothing. Think Madam Pomfrey put a silencing charm up, though."

The three of them looked anxiously at the blank white curtain, which was quivering slightly, as if disturbed by a slight breeze.

Ginny dropped into the chair beside Ron's bed. "He'll be all right, though, right? I mean, he's always all right."

"Course he will," Ron said grandly. "It's never as bad as it looks. Head wounds bleed a lot is all."

"Ron, that's not very helpful!" Ginny glared at him.

The sound of metal clinking against metal drew their attention, and the curtain was pulled aside by Madam Pomfrey.

"I thought I heard voices out here," she said with slight reproach in her tone. She looked as orderly and cool as ever in her blue uniform. "I should have known Hagrid wouldn't be able to resist you two." There was resignation and slight amusement in her voice.

"It's not his fault, Madam Pomfrey," Ginny said. "We came to visit Ron."

The matron did not look convinced. "So you did. Well, it won't do you any good to try and talk to Mr Potter anyway. I've given him a sleeping potion." She seemed triumphant at having foiled their ruse.

"He'll be all right, then?" Ginny asked, more anxiously than one might have expected from someone who was currently dating someone else.

"It'll take more than a Beater's bat to the noggin to put Harry Potter out of commission," Madam Pomfrey said with a certain degree of pride.

"Well, as long as we're here, would it be all right if we just quickly went in to see him?" Ginny asked sweetly.

"As I just said, he is sound asleep, won't wake up for hours."

"Then it won't bother him if we just peek in. Please, Madam Pomfrey? Hermione's his best friend, aside from Ron. And I'm practically his sister. He hasn't got any real family to visit him."

Hermione felt a bit uncomfortable at Ginny's using her name to wheedle a glimpse of Harry out of Madam Pomfrey, but she didn't protest, and she had to admit, it was a clever tactic to pull on the matron's heartstrings like that.

Madam Pomfrey looked like she knew she'd been had, but pulled the curtain aside nevertheless. "Not long now, mind you. Don't try to wake him or even touch him. He's sustained a serious injury to the head and he must remain completely still." She retreated to give them some privacy.

Ron craned his neck to see while Hermione and Ginny softly approached Harry's bed. His head was wrapped in thick, white bandages, and he looked small and child-like, lying there with the covers pulled up to his neck and his glasses off. Hermione's breath caught and she felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. First Ron, and now Harry. He could really have died out there. Was this incident somehow related to the other attacks and near-deaths this year? She'd always had a bad feeling about McLaggen. Maybe Voldemort really _had _recruited him. On the other hand, whacking Harry over the head with a Beater's bat during a school match was not a very sure-fire way of killing him. Although it would very much be McLaggen's style.

Hermione felt the sudden urge to run away. She wasn't sure where that had come from; they were perfectly safe there, in the hospital wing, with Hagrid standing guard at the door. Nevertheless, she was very uncomfortable. She took a step back, away from the white curtains. "He looks like he's going to be all right," she said to Ginny. "We should probably go."

Ginny had sat down in the chair beside Harry's bed and was gazing anxiously at his face. "What if he's awake in there? What if he can hear us, but he just can't react?"

"Madam Pomfrey gave him a sleeping potion. He's only asleep," Hermione said with slight irritation. "He'll be fine in the morning."

"I'd just like to sit here a while, if you don't mind," Ginny replied softly. "Just so he's not alone."

"All right," Hermione agreed, glad that Ginny hadn't asked her to stay as well. "I'll go back to Gryffindor then, let everyone know he'll be fine."

Ginny nodded and gave Hermione a brief smile before returning her attention to the unconscious hero.

Hermione turned to go in relief, but before she had taken many steps, Ron spoke: "Hey, Hermione. Mind staying a minute?" He seemed nervous, but hopefully indicated the chair that Ginny had sat in earlier.

"I should really get back, Ron, everyone's worried."

"Come on, it won't take long. I need to talk to you."

Hermione hesitated, but finally took a seat. "What is it?" she asked, not able to look Ron in the eye.

"I don't want Ginny to hear us," Ron said in a low voice. "Can you...?" He indicated the wand movement for the _Muffliato_ spell with his finger. His wand was nowhere in sight, likely having been locked away by Madam Pomfrey for safekeeping.

Hermione performed the privacy charm and kept her wand out. It gave her something to do with her hands.

"Hermione, I... I've been thinking a lot about what you told me," Ron began.

It was just as she had feared. He would have to bring up her confession. "Oh, Ron, I don't want to talk about it!" Hermione said. "I'm sorry I told you. I didn't want to burden you with it! I just—"

"What are you talking about?" he interrupted, looking at her like she was crazy. "It's no burden! I mean, I could hardly think of anything else all week. I know why you didn't want to tell me, but it's okay. I don't think any differently of you."

Tears began to swim in Hermione's eyes. She concentrated hard on the carvings on her wand.

"Does... does anyone else know?" he asked carefully. "Dumbledore? ... Harry?"

"Dumbledore knows, and Madam Pomfrey." And Snape, and probably Malfoy, she added silently. "I haven't told anyone else. You're the only one."

Ron was silent at that.

"I didn't mean to tell you, either, I just... I'm sorry, it slipped out," she said miserably.

"I'm glad you did. Now I know why you've been acting so weird all year."

For some reason, that annoyed Hermione. "Not everything I do and say has to do with ... that, you know."

"That's not what I meant," Ron tried to explain.

"But that's what you think, isn't it? Now that I told you what happened, you think that everything I do is because of that. Well, maybe I would have done all those things anyway! Maybe it hasn't affected me at all!"

"But you said yourself, you were acting all angry because of it," Ron said defensively.

"Of course I was angry! I was brutally attacked and forced to cover it up, to go to class with—" She stopped herself; she'd nearly said 'to go to class with the man who raped me'.

"With what?"

"Nothing. I had to go to class and pretend like nothing had happened."

"I could tell something was different, though. I thought..." Ron got a sheepish look on his face. "I thought it was that you didn't like Lavender. Didn't like her spending all that time with me."

"Well, I don't like Lavender," Hermione said spitefully. It wasn't exactly true, although on the other hand she and Lavender had never really been fast friends. At Ron's stricken look, Hermione's heart softened. Here she was again, lashing out at people who were supposed to be her friends. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I mean, I don't like how she hangs all over you and calls you pet names. It's childish and embarrassing. But I think she is a perfectly nice person. She has a good heart, Ron. That's what's important." Please, please, don't break up with her because of anything I've said, she begged silently.

"Yeah," Ron said, but he didn't seem convinced. "Well, I just wanted you to know, I'm really glad you told me. And I don't think of you any differently. And if you ever find out who it was, me and Harry will hunt him down for you. And kill him." This last was said with such fervency that Hermione got a little shiver.

Ron's attention was drawn to something behind Hermione's shoulder, so she turned and saw Ginny standing there with her hands on her hips and an amused smirk on her face. Hermione quickly ended the privacy spell.

"So, all done visiting my big brother, then?" she asked.

"If you're done mooning over Harry," Ron shot back.

Ginny's jaw dropped in protest. "I was not mooning! I was doing the same thing I'd have done for you if you were lying there unconscious with no other family around!"

"What, switching his nose and ears around and jinxing his voice to sound like he'd sucked on helium when he woke up?"

"You were only pretending to be sick to get out of de-gnoming the garden!"

"I had a temperature!"

"Shh!" Hermione urged. "You'll wake Harry!"

Already, Madam Pomfrey had emerged from wherever it was that she'd disappeared to, and was on her way over with a severe expression on her face.

"Now we're for it," Ron whispered in a strangled sort of voice. "You'd better scram."

"I'm way ahead of you, dear brother," Ginny said, making good on her words by double-timing it to the exit, dragging Hermione by the arm. "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey," she called over her shoulder. "Ron said he's feeling a bit constipated, by the way!"

The last thing Hermione heard was Ron wailing, "Ginny!" before the door to the infirmary swung shut behind them.

+++000+++000+++

Author's Note: Hmm, well, that's just the first scene I had planned for this chapter out of seven scenes, but since this already came out over 3000 words, I thought I'd better just post it before it balloons into a mega-chapter. Plus I thought you all might prefer a quicker update rather than having to wait another couple of weeks for a longer chapter. The rest is coming, though, never fear.


	26. Chapter 26: The Imperius Essay

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 26**

**- The Imperius Essay -**

_The first thing the victim of the Imperius Curse feels is a release. Freedom. Free of fear, free of the need to make a decision. Did you know that every moment of your life, you have to make a decision? What to eat, what to say, or whether to remain silent. Where to step, how to hold your arms, how hard to scratch that tickle on your head. Or whether to scream and fight like a wildcat to somehow stop this from happening, to stop this violation that you can't even begin to imagine is really happening, that is ripping you apart, body and soul, or to beg and plead, hoping that the person behind the mask is the one you think he is, the one who is on your side, the one who has always protected you and your friends, despite what everyone else thinks. Those are all decisions which the subject of the Imperius curse is relieved of the necessity of making. _

_It is a strange feeling, but not an altogether unpleasant one. It is disquieting, this lack of responsibility for one's actions. Imagine that you've been told that you can do whatever you'd like without fear of consequences: Eat fifty Chocolate Frogs; you won't get sick. Don't go to bed for a month; you won't get tired. Do a swan dive down Angel Falls and have the rainbows at the bottom catch you. Or just lie there, head full of cotton, and let the nice man in the silver mask pull off your pants and cleave you and cleave unto you and nothing bad will happen at all, it won't hurt, there's nothing to be ashamed of, it's good and right to have this foreign flesh invading you, to have that part – even though you know what it is, you can't even bring yourself to think the word, to put a mental image to what you know is happening down there, down there is you! you're not even a woman yet, you're still just a little girl, this shouldn't be happening – that part is in you and this is what animals do, this is what people do, but it's all right, this is exactly the way things are supposed to be, as long as you lie still. Does that make sense?Of course it does. That is what the Imperius Curse does. It makes everything make so much bloody sense that you can't even understand it anymore._

At this point, Hermione realized that she was crying because she couldn't see the words she had just written anymore. Her nose was running and she didn't have a handkerchief, so she turned up the sleeve of her robe and wiped it there. She was well into her fourth foot of parchment. The assignment had only called for two. She couldn't hand this in, she knew, and not just because of the length.

On the other hand, how many students – how many people at all, for that matter – had first-hand experience with the Imperius Curse and could describe its effects with such insight? Wasn't that just as valuable as knowing how to detect it in others? Admittedly, she hadn't been entirely objective in her descriptions. She hadn't meant it all to come out like that; she'd only meant to write a few words, two or three sentences tops, about what the Imperius Curse felt like. But once she'd started, the words had kept coming of their own accord. It had felt good to get it all out, to write it down. It was better than talking about it, because she didn't have to justify what she wrote to anyone, no need to be careful about revealing any secrets, nor worry about how the parchment and ink would react to the words.

She wondered what Snape would do if he read it, really read it and not just got angry as soon as he realized what she'd written and scrawled a T across the page or, more likely, ripped the parchment in two and sent her to detention or petitioned for her expulsion. Would he care? Would he understand? Would he try and explain?

She'd had enough of their explanations, his and Dumbledore's. That wasn't what she needed. She'd thought at first that she needed to understand. That if she knew why it had happened, that she'd be able to put it behind her, the same way that an arithmantic problem niggled at her and kept her awake at night until she'd seen the logic behind it, and then she didn't have to think about it again. But then she'd gone to see Dumbledore and he'd talked about soap, and then she'd gone to see Snape, and he'd talked about destroying what she most valued in order to save it, and she'd understood all too well. She didn't want any more explanations. She wanted regret and remorse. She wanted guilt. Their guilt. Especially Snape's. And Voldemort's, if he was even capable of such feelings, which she doubted. But Dumbledore was, and Snape, too.

Dumbledore had told her himself that he was sorry for what had happened, and felt culpable for the leak in security. That wasn't what she was angry at him for, though; it was for covering Snape, for putting her and the other girls in the position where they had to daily see and interact with their attackers. Not that they were supposed to know who the attackers had been. She was only really certain of Snape. She suspected Malfoy, but had no proof, and she had no clue on the others. And still, despite all that she knew, she continued to trust Dumbledore, to believe that he had a plan that would, in the end, make all of this worthwhile. For if they could rid the world of the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, wouldn't that justify all of this? Wouldn't it? She had to hope that it did. It was the only hope she had to hold on to.

Snape, though, had no grand plan. He was a pawn, like her. What if it had been Professor Flitwick who'd been forced to rape her? Or Terry Boot, or Neville? Wouldn't they have broken down and been racked with guilt afterwards, when she'd figured out their identity? Wouldn't they have begged her to forgive them, explained how they'd been forced to do it and that they never wanted to hurt her? How different that would have been. They might even have worked through it together. But not Snape. He never once even suggested that he was sorry. Just some attempts at justification; that, at least, though, showed that he knew that his actions had been unacceptable. But he acted as if he thought Hermione were overreacting: She wasn't dead or permanently disabled, so she should buck up and get over it. Well, she was trying!

She frowned and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment out of her desk. 'The Imperius Curse', she printed in neat, even letters at the top. 'By Hermione Granger'.

+++000+++000+++

"Harry!" Hermione's face lit up with relief when she saw him sitting on the common room sofa when she came back from dinner that Sunday evening. "Are you out already?" The Quidditch game had only been the previous morning.

"Hey, Hermione!" he said, grinning goofily and then nodding at Ron, who was sitting in an armchair with his back to the door, which explained why she hadn't seen him right away. "We got sprung together."

Ron turned around and greeted Hermione tentatively. Hermione hesitated, then went ahead and perched on the arm of the sofa. She wasn't sure what to say. She felt like Ron was watching her especially closely. Of course he knew now. He would always see her differently. Knowledge of that fact had caused a barrier to be thrown up between them, one that would mediate all of their interactions from this point forward. She didn't exactly regret having told him; it was definitely better this way, to have things squared between them. They both knew precisely where they stood.

"So," she said finally, blowing out a breath and trying to be upbeat. "Madam Pomfrey got tired of the two of you already."

"I should bloody well say so, I was only there for two weeks!" Ron said with what Hermione felt was somewhat forced enthusiasm.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked," Harry said of his own injury, rubbing his head and messing up his spiky black hair even further.

"Well, it's really good you're back. Really." It was, of course. She was relieved that they had both recovered so quickly. But so much had happened in the past few days, so much had changed. The three of them were back together, but things weren't like they used to be. They would never be. She smiled awkwardly.

Ron and Harry must have felt similarly, for they seemed to be overcome by the same self-conscious silence.

"Oh, hey everyone!" Ginny relieved them all by coming in with Dean. "Harry! Is your head better?"

"Reckon so," he said affably, knocking his knuckles against his head.

"Good." Ginny reached over and slapped him against the back of the head. "What were you thinking?!" she cried.

"Ow!" Harry exclaimed, ducking, while Ron yelped, "Ginny! What are you doing?" Dean merely chuckled and shook his head.

"Whatever possessed you to put McLaggen in for Ron?"

"Uh... he offered?" Harry guessed, watching her hands warily.

"You're the captain! You're supposed to do what's best for the team!"

"Well, excuse me for trying to make sure we had a Keeper for the match. I guess next time we'll just do without and let Slytherin shoot as many goals as they want."

"At least then we'd only have lost the match. Which we did anyway, in case you didn't notice."

"Yeah, I had noticed, thanks. I'm sorry. Next time I'll be sure to consult Professor Trelawney before putting together the team, on the off chance that someone else will turn out to be a homicidal maniac."

"It's not like you need to worry about that anymore anyway," Ron jumped in to Harry's defense. "I'm back. McLaggen's out. And I heard McGonagall wasn't too pleased with him, either."

They continued to talk about Quidditch, and Hermione tuned out as she saw Lavender and Parvati come in. Lavender noticed the group around Ron straight away, and her face hardened as she gave Hermione a particularly unfriendly glare. Parvati put her hand against Lavender's elbow and steered her straight to the girls' stairs. Hermione's heart sank. She knew what it looked like to Lavender. She considered whether to go and talk to her now, but just wasn't up to having a big blow-up this late in the evening. It would be better to let her get it all off her chest with Parvati. Which meant she couldn't go up to bed for a couple of hours. She also wasn't very keen on hanging out with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Dean, and the other Gryffindors who were even now being drawn into the increasingly lively discussion of the Quidditch match. She unobtrusively backed out of the group and sidled out of the common room.

The library was well-frequented by students trying to complete their weekend assignments at the last minute. She didn't have her school bag with her, so she settled for picking up a book on pentagrams, but after a few minutes of riffling through it, she found herself unable to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to her Imperius essay. Not the one she was going to hand in; that was fine. The version she'd written first, with her personal experiences. She'd thought of a couple more things she'd forgotten about before, but that the writing had brought back to the surface. She didn't want to wait until she could go back to her room; she was afraid she'd forget again. She spied Padma at a nearby table and borrowed a piece of parchment and a quill, and then went to a quiet corner and started writing.

+++000+++000+++

The next morning, Lavender's silent treatment was driving Hermione to distraction, and Parvati didn't seem too comfortable about being caught in the middle, either.

"Lavender?" Hermione tried it for the third time. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what I've done wrong. Whatever's going on between you and Ron, has nothing to do with me."

"Oh really?" Lavender spun around suddenly, and Hermione was startled to see the tears threatening to spill over in her eyes. "All those visits while he was in hospital, meeting behind my back in the library – don't think I don't know about that – all completely coincidental to him avoiding me and being cold to me!"

"I never tried to turn him against you. In fact, I told him more than once how good you are for him."

"Oh, so you admit it! You did talk about me to him!"

"I was only trying to help you!"

"Well, I don't need that kind of help! You'd be most helpful if you would just stay away from him!" And she burst into tears and ran out of the room. Parvati followed, giving Hermione a reproachful look.

Hermione collapsed on her bed. This was not shaping up to be a good day.

Things only went downhill at breakfast, with Ron trying both to be polite to and ignore Lavender, while Lavender tried to both be rude to and ignore Hermione. Hermione couldn't help smiling bitterly to herself at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Let them ruin things for themselves if they must. She was done with running interference.

+++000+++000+++

In Defense class, she slid into her regular seat next to Harry just in time to beat Ron out for it. Ron looked on the verge of arguing her for it before he grudgingly took his usual place beside Lavender in the second row. Lavender, for her part, couldn't even look at Ron and spent most of the period staring morosely at the blank parchment in front of her. Not even a direct question from Snape and subsequent ten-point deduction could snap her out of her funk.

Hermione shoved her essay into Harry's hand to turn in for her at the end of class. This had become their usual procedure, so that Hermione didn't have to get any nearer Snape than absolutely necessary. Of course, Harry didn't know the reason behind it, thinking it merely a small favor he could do for Hermione in return for her helping him so extensively with all of his other homework.

Hermione had privately written another two feet about her ordeal under the Imperius Curse last night in the library. She had no idea what she was going to do with all the material she was generating, but it was becoming a minor obsession with her, and even now she couldn't wait for a free period so that she could write some more. It was cathartic to put things down on parchment, as if all of the pent-up anger and frustration were flowing out of her arm with the ink.

As soon as classes were over in the afternoon, therefore, she sought out a quiet nook where she could be alone, and took out the small sheaf of parchment papers. She had felt safer carrying them around with her, not only so that she could jot something down whenever she felt like it, but also because she didn't entirely trust Lavender not to go through her things, with the state of mind she was in now.

She shuffled through to find where she'd left off. Right away, she noticed something wasn't right, and she felt the first grip of panic around her heart. There was a page missing. There couldn't be a page missing, it must be... She scrabbled through the contents of her school bag, her heart thudding ever more irregularly in her chest. _Calm, Hermione, calm_, she said to herself._ It's here. The rest of the papers are here, that last one will be, too. It must have just gotten separated..._ She took a deep breath, then systematically took out every single item from her bag. She fingered every paper to make sure there weren't two stuck together. She shook out every book to make sure there was nothing trapped between the pages. She felt in every fold and turned the bag completely inside-out. It wasn't there. She felt sick.

It wasn't possible that anyone might have taken it. She'd had the bag with her every moment. Also, why would anyone only have taken one page? Surely they would have grabbed everything while they had a chance. She must have left it behind the last time she'd written something. That had been the night before, in the library. But those pages were all here, she ascertained. It was one of the other pages that was missing, from what had started out as the first version of her DADA assignment. She hadn't had those pages with her last night; they'd still been back in her room. And she was certain that she'd packed everything into her bag this morning. She distinctly remembered that sheet on the top of the little separate pile that she'd slid into the side pocket.

She went through all of the papers a third time, willing the missing page to be there after all, but of course it wasn't. It might have fallen out.... She packed everything back in and retraced her steps through the castle, but without much hope of finding anything. Several hours had passed since she'd left Gryffindor Tower that morning, and the staircases were no longer in the same configuration. It was impossible. She had the sinking feeling that someone, for whatever reason, had taken that page out. Lavender was her prime suspect, but really, she'd never done anything mean to Hermione before. She would have had no way of knowing what was on it anyway, possibly hoping only to get Hermione in trouble for not completing her homework assignment.

But there was another possibility.... Draco Malfoy had been in Defense class as well that morning. It was just remotely possible that she'd left the bag open on her desk in such a way that one or more pages had been partially visible. Might he have seen something on there that piqued his interest? But he hadn't been anywhere near her all period, she was certain. Only Harry had been in a position to see her bag, and he wouldn't have taken the page. That wasn't his style at all. He would have asked her straight out if anything had caught his eye. No, it was definitely a Slytherin tactic.

Well, even if Draco had taken it, Hermione decided truculently, so what? She hadn't written Snape's name on it anywhere. And if Draco had been there on Halloween, he would know all that had happened anyway. And maybe it would shock him just a little to see things from a victim's point of view. She hoped he had taken it, come to think of it. If she couldn't make Snape read it and weep, then maybe she could at least have the satisfaction of rubbing another Death Eater's nose in his own filth.

+++000+++000+++

..._ make so much bloody sense that you can't even understand it anymore._

Snape sat back, all color drained from his face. He'd been about to grudgingly write an 'E' at the top of the essay when he'd noticed that there was one more page. Already internally grumbling at her overzealousness, he'd mentally deducted a mark for not keeping to the assigned length before he realized what it was that he had in front of him. He didn't even know what to think. Had she meant this as a serious academic treatment of the effects of the Curse? Was this her way of trying to drive home to him how terribly he had mistreated her? (In which case, he wasn't sure whether she was more upset about his use of the Imperius, or the physical violation itself.) The image of her lying there beneath him arose in his mind unbidden, the terrible hissing mixed with the screams of the other girls...

Snape thrashed out with his arm and swept the entire contents of the desk top to the floor. The thumps of the books and clatter of the inkpots was over much too quickly, the fluttering of the scattered papers ceased after but a moment, not enough to distract him from the memories. He let out a groan and seized his head, as if he could clamp the thoughts down and stop them from emerging.

What were his options? She no longer cared about House points. A detention was likewise pointless. If he went to Dumbledore, he would have to share the blasted essay with him, and he knew what the Headmaster's response to that would be: More calls for apologies, restitution, and talk of the state of his soul. No, thank you.

Confronting Granger directly was also not something he desired to do: It was probably exactly what she was fishing for, considering the number of times she'd already attempted to force a confrontation with him. For that reason alone, it was out of the question, although he had to admit it would give him some satisfaction to tell the girl once more to her face that she had no claim over him.

He rubbed his hand over his face and got up, kicking parchments and ink bottles aside. He had no doubt he would return to find the room in pristine order. Right now, though, he found a Fireball or two would be just the thing to turn the evening around. Or at least end it with blissful oblivion.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione watched Ginny more over the next couple of days. At meals, in the common room, whenever she passed by her in the corridors. She wasn't doing it on purpose, exactly, but she had become preoccupied with comparing Ginny's experience with Riddle to her own experience with the Death Eaters. She wanted very much to talk to Ginny about it, find out how she'd gotten over it (if she had at all), but it wasn't exactly the sort of thing you could bring up casually. She tried not to stare or be obvious, but Ginny must have noticed that something was going on, because she ran after her one morning following breakfast.

"Hey, Hermione, wait," Ginny said as she caught up to her just outside the Great Hall. She flipped her long, red hair back over her shoulder, and Hermione was struck by how self-assured the gesture was. She herself still felt extremely uncomfortable with her body and tried to make her movements as small and unobtrusive as possible.

"You've been giving me funny looks the past few days," Ginny said. "I want to know why. Does it have something to do with Harry?" She seemed ever so slightly aggressive, but kept her tone of voice friendly enough that it didn't come across as rude.

Embarrassment crept over Hermione, tempered by indignation at the assumption that everything should have to do with Harry. She looked around nervously, trying to make sure that no one was listening. "I haven't been giving you funny looks." She tried to sound reasonable.

Ginny also looked around, and, deciding that it was too public of a space, gestured to Hermione to join her in an empty classroom nearby. Once she'd closed the door behind them, she hopped up to sit on a desk and flipped her hair again. It was smooth and shiny and looked just-washed. Hermione was doubly conscious of her own fly-away pile of muddy brown split ends.

"Now," Ginny began again. "It started when we went to visit Harry in the infirmary. We were talking about who you fancy, and you gave me a funny look when I mentioned Harry. Like you thought I was the one who fancied him. And ever since then, it's been like you're watching me. It's giving me the creeps, to tell you the truth. If there's something you want to ask me, just go ahead and do it. I have nothing to hide. And no, I don't fancy Harry like that. I know that Dean and I may be having a rough patch right now, but I promise you it has nothing to do with Harry. So if you want to go after him—"

"No!" Hermione interrupted. "Ginny, that's not it at all. I don't fancy Harry, honestly. Or Ron. Or ... any boys," she ended, and for some reason, she felt tears rising in her throat, but she clenched her fists until the nails bit into her palms to get control.

Now Ginny looked at Hermione strangely, as if something were just dawning on her, and, more than a little shocked, she said, "Oh my God, Hermione. It's not... I mean, you don't ... You don't fancy girls, do you? Is that it? Because.... I mean, it's totally okay, I don't have a problem with it, it's just that..." Ginny was at an utter loss for words.

That broke the tension in Hermione, and she let out a bark of laughter that covered the sob that had been building in her. "No! Ginny! I don't ... I don't fancy you, either! I mean, you're attractive enough and all," she tried to joke.

"Oh," Ginny laughed breathily as well. "Okay then. I mean, if I fancied girls, I'd think you were pretty cute yourself," she said dutifully.

"No, you wouldn't," Hermione said flatly. "You don't need to flatter me. I know I'm nothing to look at. And not much fun company, either."

"Well, you could do something with your hair for once," Ginny mused. "On the other hand, there are fellas who go for the natural look. And Ron—"

"I told you, there's nothing between me and Ron."

Ginny held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I've got it. But if that's not what this is about, what then? Don't tell me I'm imagining things."

Hermione fidgeted. Ginny had given her the opening. She decided to take it. "There is something," she began quietly, looking down at the floor. "It's really personal, so I wasn't sure how to ask. Even if I should ask. I probably shouldn't."

"No, go ahead. What is it?"

"It's about Tom Riddle."

Ginny became very quiet. Hermione risked looking at her after a moment. It was as if the light had been turned off inside her. She looked thin and very child-like all of a sudden.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Hermione whispered. "I'm sorry."

Her words seemed to shake Ginny out of whatever mode she had switched into in that brief moment. "No, it's okay. What do you want to know?" She sat up straighter.

"How did you... I mean, I don't even know how to ask this, but how did you get over him having used you like he did? Making you do those things, nearly killing you... How come you're so... perfect, now?"

Ginny's mouth screwed up in a wry smile. "You think I'm perfect? I'm not, I promise you."

"You just seem so self-assured, so confident. I could never tell that you had that happen to you."

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Why are you so interested now? I mean, it was four years ago."

Hermione's heart started thudding. Should she tell Ginny what had happened? It would make the rest of the conversation easier, certainly, but it would also mean letting another person in on her secret, exposing herself, opening herself up to Ginny's judgment. She didn't feel ready to do that. She was afraid of what Ginny might say, what she might try and get Hermione to do. And so she seized on something that she thought Ginny might buy, as it involved Harry. Everything had to involve Harry. "It has to do with something that Harry's working on. About Riddle. I don't know that much about it," Hermione fudged, "but I just thought... well, you probably know the young Tom Riddle better than anyone else. Maybe there was something he said or did, or even left with you, that relates to that secret." It sounded implausible even to Hermione's ears, but she hoped that Ginny bought it.

"Dumbledore already looked at all of my memories from those months," Ginny said, and now she sounded hard and curt. "Quite honestly, I hardly remember anything."

"Oh." Hermione was sorry now that she'd brought it up.

"He was smooth and very persuasive," Ginny said bitterly. "He knew exactly what I wanted to hear. I was naive and lonely. I thought once I got to Hogwarts, with Ron and the twins, and Harry, things would be like they were at home during the holidays. Or else I'd be part of Ron and Harry's grand adventures. I was wrong. No one was interested in me. But _he_ was interested in me. That was his great trick. I don't think he even had to use any sort of magic on me. At first, anyway. All he had to do was listen and tell me I was right, right about all of my petty jealousies and righteous indignation and wounded eleven-year-old feelings. And I would have done anything for him. I think I let him into my mind willingly, at first." She frowned, and her eyes went out of focus and her voice went soft, as she tried to remember. "I don't know anymore. I supposed I must have. I wanted that closeness, that intimacy. It was comforting, and exciting. Like a best girl friend and a first boyfriend, all rolled into one."

Ginny's eyes became bigger and she seemed to shrink in on herself again as she continued: "But then he changed. Started demanding things, telling me I wasn't grateful, hurting me in little ways if I didn't agree with him. Not physically," she clarified, glancing over at Hermione, "but saying hurtful things, making fun of how I dressed or telling me that no one else liked me. Like I said, he knew exactly what to say to an eleven-year-old girl to break her, to mold her to his will."

She stopped her monologue and gave Hermione a tight smile. "I guess I remembered more than I had thought. Although I don't see what use that is. He didn't happen to mention being deathly allergic to shellfish, if that's what you thought." She slid down off the desk, indicating that the interview was over. "If Harry wants to ask me anything specific, tell him to talk to me directly next time."

Hermione couldn't even bring herself to nod. She felt awful about having lied to Ginny, even more so that she hadn't found out what she really wanted to know. Well, as she'd come this far and probably already lost any chance of Ginny becoming a close confidante, she dared to ask her last question:

"Ginny? Did you ever... talk to anyone? About what happened? Like therapy or something?"

Ginny snorted. "Therapy is a Muggle fashion, Hermione. The wizarding world is full of mad ghosts and other creatures ensnaring unsuspecting victims and making them do their bidding. That's what we have Defense class for. DADA is our therapy." The last thing Hermione saw of her was her red hair flaring out behind her as she disappeared out the door.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione looked away when Snape handed back their essays. Seeing his hands up close gave her flashbacks. She still shuddered at the thought that she was holding the same papers that he had held, that he had carried with him, touched, fingered, left his mark on. Using her sleeve to shield her fingers, she shimmied the essay gingerly into her bag without really looking at it. She didn't care what grade she'd gotten.

Snape was always a fair grader, anyway, despite everything else. It's just that she didn't put that much effort into her assignments anymore. She figured she'd probably received an E on this one, though. She'd been more than thorough without being brilliant, and had even managed to keep her remarks to the proscribed two feet of parchment.

"What'd you get?" Ron asked her and Harry as they left class together. Lavender trailed behind them, not quite sure whether she was part of the group or not.

"An E," Harry said, shouldering his bag. "You?"

"An A," he said, grinning. "You're a life-saver, Hermione." He nudged her with his elbow. She'd agreed to look over (i.e. write large portions of) his essay for him when it became clear that Snape expected him to hand it in on time despite having nearly died and subsequently been missing from class for over two weeks. "How about you? An O, of course," he said knowingly.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I didn't look. Probably—" She pulled out the top parchment with the big, red letter on top, and her mouth dropped in surprise. "A 'P'!"

Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at each other and Lavender craned her neck around to try and get a glimpse of the paper.

"Are you sure?" Harry pulled the essay out of Hermione's limp hand.

"Blimey," Ron said, looking over Harry's shoulder. "That's a P, all right."

"Thank you very much," Hermione snapped and plucked the essay out of Harry's hand. She quickly flipped to the second page. No comments. Nothing. Just the great, ugly 'P' at the top.

"Well, there's obviously some mistake," Harry said reasonably. "I mean, he must have gotten this mixed up with Ron's or something."

"Oy!" Ron protested. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means... Oh, nothing, Ron." Hermione tsked impatiently. "It means that you're all right about Snape, he's unfair and he hates Gryffindors. All right?" She stuffed the essay back into her bag.

"Yeah, geez, no need to get all huffy about it," Ron said. "I could'a told you that already."

"Don't worry about it, Hermione. It's happened to all of us," Harry added in a conciliatory manner.

"Not like it has to me," Hermione muttered grimly and walked quickly away.

+++000+++000+++

What did he mean by it? Hermione had the essay spread out in front of her, the crumpled pages carefully smoothed. Was he trying to send her some sort of message? Was this like those fifty points he'd taken off her for insolence in class, which had actually been for being out alone on the grounds after curfew? Or had he truly thought her essay was 'poor', not even as good as Ron's?

She pounded her knuckles against her forehead. She'd read Ron's essay ... heck, she'd all but written half of it. It hadn't gone into nearly the amount of detail that hers had and hadn't mentioned the victim's perceptions at all.

A curious light began to dawn. Was that it? she wondered. Had Snape found her explanation of what the Imperius Curse feels like to the victim to be inappropriate? She hadn't turned in her very emotional diatribe, of course. She had ended up re-writing that section entirely, putting in nothing more than one very succint paragraph with very neutral-sounding, clinical terms. She flipped to the section in question. Nothing. No comments to indicate what had displeased him. Just the big, red 'P' on the top. It was a real riddle.

Not that she cared, in the end, what her grade was. If the essay had been less than adequate, she would have accepted the mark without question. In fact, if Snape had habitually given her lower marks than she deserved, she wouldn't have questioned it either. It was the change in Snape's behaviour that was occupying her. Because if there was one thing she'd learned about Severus Snape, it was that he didn't do anything without having a reason.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione watched Snape over the next couple of days, trying to gauge whether he was looking at her any more meaningfully than usual, or whether any of his other behaviour seemed out of the ordinary. She couldn't detect anything. Their next Defense class was on Friday, and Hermione packed the Imperius essay into her bag without even really having a clear plan of what she might do with it. She had a vague notion of asking him about the mark, but she didn't actually want to have to talk to him in person, and she knew it would be a futile endeavour at any rate. He wasn't about to change it. He couldn't admit that he might have made a mistake. And any explanation he might give would likely serve only to infuriate her. Not that he was inclined (nor required) to give any sort of justification for the mark. Still, it niggled at her. Even if all he did was sneer and say she'd misspelled 'definitely' once too often (which she hadn't), she'd be satisfied. As long as there was a _reason_.

All through class, she was distracted, her heart thudding every time she thought about going up to his desk afterwards. Luckily (or, rather, predictably), he didn't call on her to speak, and she didn't volunteer. It was another one of their unspoken understandings to keep out of each other's lives as much as possible.

Finally, when the bell rang, Hermione heard herself saying, "Wait for me, will you, Harry? I just want to ask Snape something." She wanted the security of knowing that Harry was there, in case things with Snape deteriorated for some reason; at the same time, she didn't want him to actually go up with her, in case something came out in the course of the conversation that she didn't want him to hear. Harry shrugged and leaned against the door jamb while the last of the students trickled out.

Her clammy hand clenched around the essay, Hermione walked woodenly toward the front of the room. She should just let it go, she knew, but some part of her hoped that this had been a message, and that the answer would be what she needed to break away from this episode entirely.

Snape was standing with his back to the room, preparing the blackboard for the next class. His skinny, white hand held his black wand, directing the board to clean itself and then form new words and diagrams. Hermione looked away and cleared her throat delicately to get his attention.

"What," he said flatly without turning around.

"I want to discuss the mark on this essay," she said, trying to remain calm.

Snape's hand paused. "My marks are not an object for discussion. It is not for you to either agree or disagree with them. Merely to take note and endeavour to improve yourself on the next assignment. And you will address me as 'Sir' or 'Professor'," he added coldly before picking up writing where he had left off.

Hermione took a cleansing breath. Well, she'd known he wouldn't be willing to discuss it. Nonetheless, in for a penny, in for a pound. Her innate sense of justice was crying out for recompense. "I didn't say I disagreed with the assessment. _Sir_. I simply fail to see the reason for this mark. There are no comments, no indication of what makes this a 'poor' essay. Without such guidance, I might just end up making the same mistakes the next time that you obviously feel I've made here."

"That would be inadvisable, Miss Granger," Snape said with an iron edge to his voice. "A continuation of such mistakes may result in things other than your grades being affected."

Now Hermione was genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? I really don't know—"

Snape turned now and looked down his crooked nose at Hermione, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You wrote. Too. Much." His words were dripping with ice. "The assignment called for two feet precisely. No more and no less."

"This is two feet!" Hermione said, shaking the papers at him, and then, suddenly cowed by those hard, dark eyes, added, "...sir."

"Do you mean to tell me you've forgotten about the third page?" he asked dangerously.

"What third page?" she asked.

He placed both hands on the desk now and leaned across it toward her, speaking very softly and holding her gaze. "The third page, in which you whinged and carped in some awful, purple prose, about things which you would do better to forget."

Hermione's eyes grew wide as an awful deduction overcame her. The missing page! Somehow, awfully, ironically, it must have ended up in his possession, and he had taken it to be part of her assignment.

"That was a mistake..." she whispered.

"Yes, it was," he agreed in that same low and treacherous voice. "One which will not be repeated. You imagine that with antics such as this you will gain my attention, press me into some admission. You got your recompense from me, or have you forgotten? The information you were so eager for?"

"That was a cheap trick!" Hermione hissed. "You knew you had nothing that I wanted, and you made me bargain away your debt."

Snape's eyebrows drew together, further darkening his face. "There was no debt! I owed you nothing. It amused you to think there was one. You tricked yourself. I never made you do anything!"

"That—" Hermione was shaking now with fury at his gall and his denial. "—is a bald-faced lie!"

"You will watch how you speak with me!"

"Hermione?" Harry asked from the doorway.

"Stay out of this, Potter," Snape rumbled.

Hermione lowered her voice and whispered fiercely, "You say you never made me do anything? What do you call using the Imperius Curse to hold someone down while you violate them!"

"I didn't bring you there," he answered equally fiercely. "And do not for one moment imagine that it was either my idea, nor that I took any sort of pleasure out of it." He looked like he might say more, but caught himself and withdrew, casting a glance at Harry. "You would do best to forget about it." He held her eye for a moment more before turning back to the blackboard. "The mark stands," he announced a bit louder. "Keep it in mind in future. And now leave."

Hermione backed away, stumbling against a desk. She was nearly blind with anger and disappointment.

"Hermione? You okay?" Harry asked when she reached him. "Was that about the Imperius essay? Sorry about that, but... I could have told you he wouldn't budge on that mark."

"Shut up, Harry. Just shut up!" she screeched, then clapped her hand over her mouth and ran away down the corridor.

+++000+++000+++

Snape Banished the last of the seventh-years' assignments from his desk. Credit where credit was due, Queensman had done quite an adequate job. As he cracked his neck with a practised motion, his eye fell on the pale yellow parchment corner sticking out from the pile he'd shoved it into. What perversion had possibly possessed him not to destroy it immediately? He supposed he'd had some notion that it might come in handy as 'evidence' against Granger. But for what? Before what body? Or possibly as blackmail material? Blast it all!

He snatched the paper up, scattering the pile, and slapped it onto the floor. The ensuing Incineration Hex was more potent than strictly necessary, blowing ashes out to the edges of the room and leaving a scorch mark on the stone at his feet. The gratification was, however, feeble and fleeting.

He wouldn't know true peace until he could be done with this entire business. His end would satisfy Granger, too, more than any words or gold. She would feel avenged. And then she would forget about him. Or perhaps not, perhaps she would always remember what he had done, who she thought he was. An ignoble way to be remembered, but after all it was true and fitting. He mocked himself: Had he imagined he would be enshrined as a hero in the public memory? As a protector, a loyal supporter of the right? Of course not. He would be remembered in the public mind, even in the minds of those who knew him best, as a backstabber and a traitor. A criminal. A murderer, if it came to that, which it must. This, then would be the legacy of Severus Snape.

"Fuck!" he roared at no one and everyone.

+++000+++000+++

It was long past midnight when he awoke. The fire was dark in the grate, there was an insistent pressure in his bladder, and his mouth felt like it was full of paste and cotton. He arose groggily from the armchair he'd collapsed in and stumbled across the room, half-wary of falling over the furniture or stepping on broken glass. The house-elves must have been in, though, because everything seemed to have been returned to its normal place.

After a successful trip to the bathroom, he returned, intending to do nothing more than fall prostrate onto his bed for the remaining scant hours of the night, but as he did, in the diffuse light from the high, bare windows, he saw the black mark on the floor. The house-elves must not have noticed it, or else not wanted to wake him in the process of cleaning it and left it for the morning. He swayed there for a moment, knowing he would get no peace that night anyway.

With jerky, mulish movements, he sat down and pulled out a piece of parchment. And then, with the yellow moonlight illuminating his way, he began to write.

+++000+++000+++

_Author's note: I know, in canon Ron and Harry were released on Monday morning before breakfast, not on Sunday evening, but it was easier to write this way. Artistic license._

_Also, I know that in the last chapter, Hermione actually gave Ginny a 'funny look' before they started talking about boys, not after, and other things in the conversation were not like Ginny says them in this chapter, but this is the way Ginny remembered it in retrospect._

_And yes. You will find out what he wrote. Later._


	27. Chapter 27: Apparition

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 27 - Apparition**

"Albus, really, I fail to see why we cannot hold the remainder of the lessons right here in the castle. It would certainly be more convenient. Why take the extra security risk of herding everyone to Hogsmeade and back?" McGonagall asked pertly.

"I for one don't relish the idea of having to hunt down wayward students who try to nip in to Zonko's or Honeydukes before, after, or during the sessions," Professor Flitwick piped up.

The atmosphere in the staff room was tense. Those who hadn't voiced their concerns or outright displeasure at the change in venue for the remaining Apparition lessons had kept their mouths tightly shut and glared resignedly at the table. All except for Snape, who, although remaining silent on the topic, hadn't taken his eyes off the Headmaster once since he had made the announcement.

Dumbledore looked tired. Oh, not to the casual observer. He still exuded a strong sense of purpose, a bright eye and a sprightly step. But Snape could see what was beneath the surface: The mustering of energy, the tenseness in his body and neck, the slight delay in reaction time. And of course he knew of the progress of the curse. They had been able to string it out ... how many months now? It was a testament not only to Snape's skill as a Potioneer and student of the Dark Arts, but also to the innate strength and fortitude of Albus Dumbledore. Many a younger wizard would have succumbed months ago, if not immediately. But their time was running out. Had run out. Snape believed he understood the reason behind Dumbledore's decision to move the Apparition lessons out of the castle.

"I need to procure some ingredients in the village anyway," Snape hissed through his teeth, sounding extremely put-upon. "I suppose I could put it off until Saturday and accompany the students then."

Professor Dumbledore beamed. "Only if it won't inconvenience you, Severus."

Snape ground his teeth. The old man was obviously enjoying this. "Not at all, Headmaster," he replied tightly.

Following Snape's lead, the rest of the teachers grudgingly volunteered for chaperone duty for the remaining Saturdays, apparently finding that giving up one Saturday morning was less of an investment of energy than clashing horns with a determined Headmaster, especially given that one of their own had already broken rank.

At the close of the meeting, Dumbledore didn't need to ask Snape to stay behind.

"It's that bad, is it?" Snape said once the door was closed.

"I cannot guarantee the integrity of the castle this time. It would be too great a risk to weaken the anti-Apparition charms again." Dumbledore sagged back into his chair.

Snape frowned. "This will send a clear signal to the Dark Lord."

"Then so be it. As long as he continues to rely upon Draco Malfoy to defeat me, I do not think we have much to worry about."

"He won't rely on him much longer. He is more than impatient. I have only been able to hold him off from declaring the assignment unfulfilled with difficulty."

"It won't be much longer now, Severus..."

"You have been saying that for months! Something has to happen, soon, or Malfoy's life is forfeit!"

"I think it shall, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly.

Snape's blood ran cold at the tone in Dumbledore's voice. "What do you mean?" Had the time come? Was he going to...

"I have been speaking to Firenze. He has seen signs..."

Snape breathed out. Not yet then. "And what does the centaur say?" he mocked. "Shall I off you when Neptune is ascending? Or wait until the sun is in the fourth house?"

Dumbledore smiled wanly, his eyes closed. "I am also very close to the culmination of my own research. Something that I feel will be the key – the crux, one might say – to a final defeat of our Lord Voldemort."

Something about the Headmaster's words caused a dim connection to form in Snape's brain, but it didn't coalesce into anything. He was mildly curious, of course, but Dumbledore had alluded to his private investigations before, and as long as he did not require Snape to participate, his curiosity remained merely mild. Dumbledore was interested in many esoteric pursuits, many of which never panned out into anything practical, as far as Snape had ever seen.

"It might be that there is no need, then—"

Dumbledore looked at Snape with a sad smile. "I'm afraid there will be. Even if Harry does manage to defeat Riddle before... You know what this Curse is, Severus. What it will turn me into. You must."

+++000+++000+++

Hermione didn't know how she made it up to her dormitory; her legs were rubbery and her hands shaking. Dobby and Kreacher had just reported to Harry about the results of their week-long tailing of Draco Malfoy. It was a good thing he hadn't told her earlier what he had them doing. She would have been a nervous wreck, worrying that they might inadvertently stumble into a Death Eater meeting where something about her might have been mentioned. It was a miracle that they hadn't found out any more than that Draco was making frequent trips to the Room of Requirement.

She'd tried to put Harry off the scent again, pointing out that none of them had ever actually seen any proof that Draco was involved with the Death Eaters. For all they knew, he was meeting a girl in there. Hermione didn't actually believe that, of course. There had to be something more sinister going on. For one thing, the house-elves had sworn that he went in alone, leaving his two cronies outside to keep watch for him.

The D.A. had used it as a practice room the previous year. Could it be that he was using it for the same purpose? Practicing how to Stun and Immobilize so that he could show off at the next Death Eater debauchery? Ugh, she didn't even want to think about it.

She couldn't turn her train of thought off, though, as she went into the bathroom and as quietly as possible took care of her nightly ablutions. Maybe – and this was a very scary possibility – maybe Malfoy had found a way to Apparate in and out of the castle through the Room of Requirement. Maybe that's why Dobby and Kreacher hadn't ever been able to follow him to a Death Eater meeting. They had seen him go into the room and had waited outside, assuming that he was staying in there. But what if he was actually using the Room as a jumping-off point for leaving the castle? That would also explain why Harry had never seen him leaving, except for that one time with Snape. But then that wouldn't make sense either, because if Draco were going to Death Eater meetings, then Snape would be, too, and the house-elves hadn't seen Snape going in to the Room. On the other hand, as a teacher, Snape could leave the castle any time he wished, using any pretext, or none at all. Draco didn't have that luxury, and he couldn't walk out the front door with Snape every time there was a meeting, or else people would get suspicious.

So it could still be that Draco was using the Room of Requirement to Apparate from. Although she had parroted the line dozens of times that it was impossible to Apparate into or out of Hogwarts, the source of her information was the old history book, Hogwarts, A History, which didn't mention anything about the Room. It could be that whoever had written the book either didn't know about the Room, or had purposely left it out of the book in order not to compromise the security of the castle. Since the Room seemed to exist within the castle but not be bound by its spatial dimensions (the practice room of the D.A. had clearly been larger on the inside than the known layout of the surrounding rooms should allow), it was possible that the Room also lay dimensionally outside of the boundaries of the anti-Apparition charms that protected the castle proper.

Alternatively, it was also possible that when the anti-Apparition charms had been partially lifted to allow them to practice in the Great Hall, they had never been fully restored, either due to oversight or error. Draco might have accidentally discovered that there were little-used corners of the castle, like the Room of Requirement, where the charms were no longer in force.

Hermione was wide awake now, feeling her way back through the darkened room to her bed. Could the Death Eaters have come in through the Room of Requirement on Halloween? Dumbledore had said that he'd closed that hole in the security, but Hermione now knew better than to necessarily take his word at face value. Maybe he only thought he'd found the weakness in the castle's perimeter. But then why wouldn't the Death Eaters have come back in and tried a second raid? Or maybe Dumbledore knew about this loophole and was allowing Draco (and only Draco) to use it, for whatever reason.

She soundlessly slipped under the covers, so as not to awaken her dorm-mates. Lavender was still furious at Hermione and accused her of trying to steal her boyfriend; luckily, she spent all of her waking energy on pursuing Ron and trying to keep him away from Hermione (and Harry), rather than plotting for revenge on Hermione. This meant that Hermione saw next to nothing of Lavender, except sometimes in the early mornings. Hermione generally tried to make a point of staying away from the dorms until she was fairly certain that Lavender would be asleep.

If only avoiding Snape were so easy. Strangely, they had settled into a sort of truce of mutual ignorance. Hermione had realized, following their last encounter over the Imperius essay, that he might well have been as disgusted by what had happened on Halloween as she had been. She had thought for many months that, even if he was forced into it, he must have enjoyed it at some level, physically, if nothing else. That's how men were, after all. But the way he'd looked at her, had told her that he hadn't taken any sort of pleasure out of it, she was now convinced. Voldemort had used his body, too, for his purposes. In a way, he had been raped as well. Both perpetrator and victim, he lost no matter how you looked at it.

She turned onto her side and pulled the comforter tightly around her, making sure that a layer of material was sandwiched between her legs (she couldn't stand the feeling of skin against her legs, even her own). She didn't want to have to think about Snape. There were other, more pressing problems to solve. Like Harry and Slughorn. 'Horcruxes'. And the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book.

There wasn't much she could do about Harry, other than to keep reminding him at every opportunity about his assignment. Not only did she feel that it was important to the Great Plan, but it was also the best way of keeping him distracted from Draco.

She'd also hit a bit of a dead end on her Horcrux research. Short of combing through each and every book in the library, hoping to randomly hit pay dirt, she didn't see any other avenues to explore in that regard.

And so she set herself the next task of uncovering the secret behind Harry's Potions book. It probably wasn't important, but on the one hand they'd had some very bad experiences with books of unknown provenance, and on the other hand, she needed something other than schoolwork to keep her occupied.

Harry was very protective of the tattered textbook, so she despaired of ever getting it to herself for a good perusal, but from the few glimpses she'd had of it, it appeared to be old, but not ancient; perhaps 50-100 years, but that guess might be exaggerated by the amount of wear and tear that the book had obviously gone through. It was covered with handwritten notes in blue or black ink that was becoming pale with age. The handwriting looked old-fashioned, but then many wizards even nowadays wrote in a hand that had gone out of fashion amongst Muggles around the time that the radio was becoming widespread. So much to the book's appearance.

It was the added content of course that was of the greatest interest. While most of the notes had proven to be, Hermione had to grudgingly admit, of much use and efficacy, there were the odd disturbing things, like the jotted-down spells which didn't appear on any Ministry-approved list and which, to Hermione's view, could only be used to dark purpose. She was certain also that Harry was not sharing everything with her (or anyone else, for that matter) that he was finding in the book, knowing her skeptical attitude towards it and anything it contained. And that in and of itself was reason enough to raise questions about it. If it were harmless, beneficial even, then why should Harry feel secretive about it? She didn't go so far as to think that it was influencing him in a way that the diary had influenced Ginny, but it was clear that there were even worse things in there than what Harry had told her, or what she'd gleaned from keeping her eyes and ears open around him.

The only real clue she had to work with was the 'Prince' title. As the book must have belonged to a former Hogwarts student, her first thought was to go see if there were any royalty who had attended Hogwarts. One never knew, it could be that the British Royals had wizarding blood somewhere, or more likely that a witch or wizard had married in at some point, making their offspring with the Muggle royal 'Half-Bloods'. She wasn't sure offhand exactly how many princes there had been in the British Isles over the last century, but it must be a manageable number.

Her only problem was, she had no access to past class lists. The library housed only books and periodicals, no school records, and Hogwarts had nothing like the 'year books' that many Muggle schools did, chronicling the students' achievements for the year. She surmised that there must be school records kept somewhere, perhaps in the Headmaster's office, but she didn't feel much like trying to sneak in there in order to try and find them. In any case, even if she did find them, it wouldn't be a matter of a quick peek under 1952 to find the elusive Prince Wizard. It would take her hours, days perhaps, to go through all of the names in all of the years, hoping to find the one that caught her eye.

And even if she did find the name, what then? What good would it do to have the name of the author of the potions and spells? Her goal was to get Harry to stop using the book, as she felt it would only bring trouble in the end. Maybe if the person who'd written the spells had ended up being a Death Eater, or could otherwise be proven not to be the kind of person that Harry would want to model his behavior on, he would get rid of the book once and for all. She couldn't think offhand of any recent British royalty who had ended up in the Death Eater category, but one never knew.

'Prince' could also of course be some sort of honorary title, or, more likely, a self-appropriated nickname. Which would make the search for the author all but impossible. Anyone could have styled themselves a Prince of Cool, or whatever it was that kids were into all those decades ago.

Still, at the very least she could try to eliminate any members of the British royal house, so the very next free period she had, she marched into the History section of the library and started flipping through indexes.

She also continued in private writing about the rape, giving her anger and fear free rein in those infrequent moments. She was very careful with the papers now, though, never using names and making sure to keep them all in a magically-sealed scroll case. She numbered the pages and counted them all every time she opened the case. She realized she should probably burn them, but for now, it was comforting to her to have the feelings made solid and locked away somewhere. She felt that if she burned them, the words would be set free somehow, and she would no longer have them under control. They were better where they were, under lock and key.

The next Defense assignment had been on Inferi, and Hermione made sure that she was the one to personally hand Snape her homework when he came round to collect it, so that there would be no misunderstanding this time. Snape had made no comment, in fact had not even looked in her direction as he snapped up the pages that she held out. Hermione breathed a little sigh of relief and satisfaction. She could handle turning in her own assignments. She didn't need Harry to do it for her.

She had been apprehensive about anything related to Snape, any situation in which she had to interact with him, or even be in the same room as him, but she was beginning to discover, to trust, in fact, that Snape wasn't going to make things more difficult for her, as long as she, in turn, stayed out of his way. She no longer felt that he might be lurking in a dark niche when she returned to her dorm at curfew; nor that he would be waiting to pounce on her in the lonely shelves of the Restricted Section.

That didn't mean that she felt entirely safe. Draco was still at large, and it might well be that there were other Death Eaters at Hogwarts. Taking a lesson from Oonagh, she never went anywhere without her wand. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was still something simmering, some unknown threat that was simply biding its time to be released. Logically, she tried to tell herself, there was nothing to worry about. The castle was safe. Safer than anywhere else, at any rate, judging by the appalling number of reports in the Prophet of people going missing or being killed.

She was further reassured of the castle's safety when the next day, the announcement went up that the next Apparition lesson would be in Hogsmeade, rather than in the Great Hall.

"Wicked!" Ron exclaimed. "I've been dying to take a look at that new Keeper's glove Squidger's come out with. They claim you'll never miss a Quaffle again!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, this isn't a Hogsmeade weekend. You won't have time to go window-shopping. Look, it says right here that we'll be escorted directly to the practice area and back by lunch." She pointed at the parchment on the bulletin board.

"Wonder why they've moved it, then." Harry frowned as if he didn't like the idea. "They've cancelled all the regular Hogsmeade weekends since Katie was attacked. You'd think it'd be safer keeping everyone here, what with all the attacks going on."

"I expect Dumbledore didn't want to risk raising the Anti-Apparition charms again," Hermione said with a grim set to her mouth.

"Well, I don't care," Ron said recklessly. "I bet Seamus'll be up for a round of the shops anyway. 'S'not like they'll notice if we hang back a bit at the end. Hey Harry, lend us the cloak, will you?"

"Ron! I will not. I might need it here."

"For what?" he whined. "Malfoy'll be in Hogsmeade with us, you can't see him on the Map there anyway."

"Dumbledore told me to keep the cloak with me," Harry insisted, "remember? At all times, not just whenever me mates don't need it for a quick nip round the village."

"Sure mate, cheers," Ron said glumly. "Just means we won't be bringing you back any samples from Honeydukes."

"Well, I for one think you should take the issue of security more seriously," Hermione declared.

"What do we have to worry about? Do you really think Death Eaters are going to attack a bunch of students in broad daylight? What do they want with us, anyway? 'S'not like we're Harry or anything. No offense, mate."

"None taken, I guess," Harry said, shaking his head and with a bemused smile.

"That's exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed!" Hermione said, becoming quite worked up. It was like Ron had completely forgotten what had happened to her and the other Muggle-borns. "Don't you rememer what Mad-Eye Moody told us? 'Constant vigilance!' There have been family members of students killed, Ron. Killed! For nothing other than being Muggle-born, or for not kowtowing to the party line. Your family are known 'blood traitors', in case you've forgotten. Your clock hand is pointing at 'mortal peril'. Do I need to go on?"

"Okay, okay," Ron said, making a calming gesture with his hands, "don't fly off your broomstick, I'll be careful. If I'd known you cared so much, Hermione..." He shared a grin with Harry.

"Ooh! I'm serious!" She stomped her foot, furious. It was all still a joke to him. Even though he knew she, along with three other students, had been kidnapped and most brutally attacked, he wasn't able to put two and two together and see that anyone setting foot outside of the castle was at risk.

She went back and forth with herself over the issue during the next few days. A large part of her wanted to stay at the castle, where, admittedly, she had been safe for the past five months. Venturing out to Hogsmeade now, in a large, slow-moving and obvious group, was a risk that she couldn't gauge. If Death Eaters were waiting for an opportunity to strike against the student body again, this would be it. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that it was a crazy risk that Dumbledore was taking with them.

Draco and Snape would be in the group as well; perfectly placed to engineer and abet an attack. She didn't have much confidence that the other three House Heads (who would also be escorting them) would be able to hold their own against an organized Death Eater attack. McGonagall, whom she judged to be the most spry of the three, had been put in the hospital last year by Umbridge's Aurors, and they hadn't been aiming to kill.

All in all, they weren't very good prospects. On the other hand, if she didn't go, she'd have to explain herself to Harry and Ron, and probably McGonagall as well. Short of mortal illness, she couldn't think of anything else that would sound plausible to them. And, she remembered what had happened during the first Apparition lesson in the Great Hall: She had gotten herself so worked up and paranoid that she'd talked herself into believing that another attack was underway, had panicked and run away, and had felt an utter fool afterwards, not to mention fearing that she was losing touch with reality. This was a test for her, how much she could trust her instincts not to lead her astray, and whether she was going to allow her life to be controlled by her fears.

In the end, there was no contest. She had to go.

Saturday morning, all of the sixth- and seventh-years who were planning on taking the test gathered excitedly in the main entry hall. Filch was there as usual, checking for Dark objects with his Probity Probe. No one was allowed to take any sort of bag or parcel with them. Lavender and Parvati cried out in dismay at being made to leave their purses behind, and it was clear that some of the boys had been planning to bring back large orders from Honeydukes, judging by the size of the backpacks they ill-naturedly handed over to their House Prefects to return to their dorms.

Hermione's stomach was fluttering, and she kept a firm grip on her wand, tucked up into her sleeve. She caught sight of Oonagh standing nearby, and noted that the older girl kept fingering her belt; she presumed that she was carrying her wand as well. Most of the rest of the students seemed in high spirits, though. It was good to be getting out, after all the months without furlough, even if they didn't have the freedom to go wherever they pleased.

Hermione caught sight of Snape as she filed out with the other Gryffindors. She ducked her head and hurried past; he was looking as aloof and sour as ever, and she was glad that they were walking in House groups, with Gryffindor at the front and Slytherin at the rear, so she didn't have to worry about being anywhere near him or Draco.

Ron couldn't manage to stay completely away from Lavender in such a small group, but Hermione did notice how he neatly avoided her grasping for his hand, sticking his own hands into his pockets and loudly lamenting how nippy the wind was and the fact that he'd forgotten his gloves. Hermione for her part had to unzip the light jacket she'd worn after just a few minutes, as it was actually a pleasantly mild April morning.

Lavender settled instead for hooking her arm around Ron's elbow and trying to slow him down enough to peel him away from Seamus, whom it appeared he was still trying to convince to sneak off with him. Hermione was trying to hang back from them enough that it didn't look like she was trying to horn in on their group, but if she hung back any further, she'd be overrun by the Hufflepuffs. When Professor Sprout chirped at her to 'Keep up with your group, dearie!', she changed tactics and wandered up to the front, just behind Professor McGonagall.

All the while, she was keeping alert, monitoring both the roadside and the sky for signs of anything unusual, but to her great relief, they arrived safely in Hogsmeade twenty minutes later with no incident.

McGonagall led the bubbly group up the High Street, then turned down a narrow lane that Hermione recognized, but puzzled her: There wasn't anything down here except ... She got a jolt of surprise when her House Head stopped in front of a shabby-looking establishment with dark, bottle-glass windows: The Hog's Head tavern.

"In you go then," Professor McGonagall said briskly, holding the door open. "You are not to order anything, the bar is closed to business. The landlord is merely allowing us to use the space. He wants us out by eleven, though, so – Mr Corner! Mr Boot! Over here, if you please, we haven't time for detours!"

The smell of goat and beer hadn't improved any since the D.A. had held their first meeting there the previous year, prompting several of the students to groan and make distasteful grimaces.

"Merlin's balls, Nott, put your shoes back on!" Blaise blurted out, covering his mouth with his scarf.

Despite the fact that the room had been cleared of furniture, it was a tight fit for everyone to find a space an arm's length away from the next person. Hermione found that she had somehow ended up just two rows behind Draco, with Snape hovering at the near wall. She tried to concentrate on Mr Twycross, who was explaining how to focus on a 'Destination'.

All she had to do was to will every particle of her body into another space. -- Why was Snape scowling like that? Was he looking in her direction? -- Then begin moving, not physically toward the space, but into nothingness. -- Where was Draco? Did he just Apparate? How had he learned it so quickly? -- And finally, really believe that she would end up in the new space. It was just like going through the barrier at platform nine and three-quarters, really. If you didn't believe that you could walk through that wall, you wouldn't be able to, no matter how much magic you had in you.

Hermione did believe it. She could do this. She'd never failed at anything before.... Well, all right, she hadn't really excelled at flying a broom, but she didn't _want_ to. She wanted to Apparate. She wanted to – Snape _was_ watching her, she was sure of it! Probably feeling smug about her incompetence at this as well as at everything else. She'd become a mediocre student in Defense under him (well, who could blame her!), and she'd never really been a natural at Potions when he'd taught it, either, even if she did know the theory. It dawned on her that he probably didn't think she was all that bright. But she was! She was smart! Hadn't Professor Lupin said she was the cleverest witch in school? But then he was a softie, he might only have said that to be kind. Maybe she really was mediocre. Suddenly filled with self-doubt, Hermione stumbled mid-twirl.

A pop from somewhere startled her, but she quickly realized that all it meant was that someone else had successfully achieved Apparition. A wave of jealousy and the beginnings of panic washed over her. Everyone else was going to Apparate except for her. She couldn't concentrate with Snape staring at her. Even Ron would get it, he'd said he felt a tingling, and she hadn't felt anything yet. She could Apparate! Anyone could, it was just a matter of concentrating. Right. Forget Snape, forget Draco, forget Ron and Harry and everything. She was going to do this.

She focused on a spot, the only free spot she could see, right up front underneath Mr Twycross, concentrated on it, saw herself there, imagined her body materializing, could already envision what the room would look like from that vantage point, and she pushed off, twirled around on one foot, trying to squeeze herself inward into a vanishingly tiny point of nothingness, and all of a sudden her lungs were compressed and she couldn't breathe, and she started to panic, but then she realized at the same moment that she was going, and she couldn't lose her grip or else she'd end up Splinched, so she forced herself through to the spot she'd chosen, and when she opened her eyes and the air rushed back into her lungs, she coughed and wobbled, but she felt all right, just a little woozy, and Professor McGonagall was exclaiming over her and tapping her with her wand just to make sure, and Mr Twycross was grinning at her, his wispy, white hair waving around as if full of static electricity, and she could hardly believe it! She'd Apparated!

She looked around with a feeling of giddy happiness, really the first time she'd felt nothing but happy in a long time, but no one else much seemed to have noticed. Snape wasn't even looking in her direction. Well, fine. She'd done it, anyway. She may not have been the first one, but at least she'd beaten Ron, judging by the way he kept spinning around in one spot and then stomping and cursing.

When the end of the hour came, there were a few groans of frustration from those students who still hadn't gotten the hang of Apparition, but mostly there was a general mad dash for the door. Lavender and Parvati rushed out, clinging to each other and gasping about fresh air. Hermione hung back, still leery of being jostled, and noticed Ron bent over, tying his shoelace. Or rather, pretending to tie it, Hermione realized, and immediately she knew what he was planning to do.

She bent down and pulled at his arm. "You're not going to do this," she hissed, looking around to see if anyone was looking, but everyone had passed them and was trying to get through the bottleneck at the door.

"Come on," Ron whispered back, a mischievous grin on his face that reminded her strongly of Fred and George. In a single smooth motion, without rising from his haunches, he rolled around and slipped behind the bar, pulling Hermione with him. She barely had time to react with indignation at him manhandling her before she found herself kneeling on the gritty, sticky floor, nose to nose with Seamus.

"Should have known you'd be in it, too!" he said good-naturedly, but then Ron put his hand over Seamus' mouth to stop him from making any more noise and silently scooted back further into the shadowy recesses of the area behind the bar. Seamus and Hermione followed him, Hermione much against her better judgment. The sounds of their clamoring classmates became ever less, until finally it was quiet. Still, Ron signaled for Hermione and Seamus to lay low.

Hermione's heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she saw Snape pass by the far end of the bar and go into the kitchen area beyond. It was nothing more than pure luck that he hadn't looked in their direction.

"We're all done here, Aberforth," they heard their professor say.

"Get on with you, then," the old barman responded grumpily. "Don't know why I agreed to this, bloody nuisance is what it is."

"I'll be sure to pass your sentiment on to the Headmaster," Snape said, and Hermione could veritably hear the curl of his lip. Hermione tried to crowd herself further back into the shadows in anticipation of Snape's second pass back on his way out. Once again, Snape's hurry to get out of the pub played in their favour, and a moment later he swept by without a sideward glance, and they heard the front door creak open and shut.

To Hermione, the next minute passed by agonizingly slowly: She was certain that the barman would come out of the kitchen any moment and see them, but he must have had something to finish up in there, or else was simply in no hurry to start the day's business, because once they felt fairly certain that Snape was gone, they were able to make it to the door without any incident. Ron went first, opening the door a crack at first, and then, finding no sign of any of the Hogwarts party, the three of them slipped out and ran in the opposite direction from the way they'd come. Ron led them around the next corner, then stopped short and laughed, breathing hard.

"That was easy!"

"Says you!" Seamus said, but he was laughing too. "I thought for sure Snape'd see us back there. I still don't know how he missed us, twice."

"He's a blind old bat is all," Ron said.

"Ron!" Hermione scolded. "That's not a very nice thing to say. We were just lucky. And I told you not to do this. You're just going to get in a heap of trouble."

"Looks like it'll be us in it together, won't it? So you'd better not say anything, or it's your broom clipped as well as mine."

"You're the one who grabbed me and made me stay!"

"Yeah, and I'm already regretting it. Seemed easier than arguing with you at the time."

"Do you two always fight like this?" Seamus asked impatiently. "It's a wonder the three of you's ever got anyplace at all. Time's a-wasting!"

"Right, just want to make sure they're out of the High Street," Ron said, peeking back around the corner. "It's probably safe now, let's go."

As he led them back up to the main commercial lane, Hermione reminded them that McGonagall was bound to notice them missing, sooner rather than later. There had only been eight Gryffindors in the group, and three missing was difficult to overlook. "They'll be coming back to look for us any time," she said with an anxious edge to her voice.

"Well then, we'd better hurry and get what we came for," Ron replied easily. "We'll just say we lost sight of the group at the turn, no biggie. We know the way back. We'll catch them up, you'll see."

Hermione trotted along after the boys, worried both about going with them and about leaving them alone. Seamus had never faced a Death Eater before, and she didn't trust Ron not to do something stupid if one did show up.

When they got to the High Street, things looked as normal as ever. Seamus nipped into Honeydukes while Ron and Hermione went a bit further on to the sporting goods shop. The smell of leather and broom polish reminded her of Harry and the broomstick servicing kit she'd bought him for Christmas a couple of years earlier.

Ron lingered in front of a display showing a sleek new racing broom. Even Hermione could see the attraction: It was fairly sparkling with energy, and everything about it said speed and excitement.

"Cor, what I wouldn't give for one of those," Ron said in awe. "Look at the aerodynamics! You could turn on a Sickle."

"It's nice, could we get what you came in for and go, please?" Hermione looked around nervously, certain that everyone around them could see that they were playing hooky.

"This is what I came in for!"

"You're not going to buy that, are you?"

"Some day I will, you'll see."

"Some day isn't today, Ron. You said something about a glove?"

"All right," he sighed, moving away from the broom with great reluctance. "There, I think they're back here." He wandered down a narrow aisle with baskets and crates full of various types of magical sporting equipment.

He stopped at one and leaned over to pick up a glove. It was sleek and shiny and looked like it was made of highly-polished snake-skin.

"Look at this, Hermione!" he exclaimed as he slipped his hand in and flexed it experimentally. "That's real boomslang skin—"

"Miss Granger knows all about boomslang skin," a familiar voice intoned. Hermione's heart sank into her stomach while Ron cringed.

Professor Snape was standing behind them, holding onto Seamus Finnigan by the ear.

"I had to tell him where you were," Seamus said, wincing. "He was about to pull me ear off."

Snape tweaked Seamus' ear once more, viciously, and then pointed at the exit with a thunderous expression.

Ron silently peeled the glove off and dropped it back into the basket, and he and Hermione filed out ahead of Snape and Seamus.

"You just had to—" Hermione hissed, but Ron cut her off.

"Don't! say it. No one forced you to come."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Well, he was right, in a manner of speaking; she could have stepped out from behind the bar and run after the group. But she hadn't wanted to leave Ron and Seamus to their own devices. Who knows what kind of trouble they might have gotten into? And, truthfully, she hadn't wanted to be the party pooper again. She'd enjoyed, fleetingly, the feeling of being in on something together again. Not the rule-breaking part, but the comradeship, the shared secret. Shared secrets and shared adventures were the glue that had held her, Harry, and Ron together, and they were something that had been missing thus far from this school year. It seemed more that the three of them had their own individual secrets and adventures going on: Harry with Dumbledore and Slughorn, Ron with Lavender, and Hermione with Snape.

There was no opportunity to discuss it, though, not with Snape breathing down their necks all the way back to Hogwarts. Hermione wondered what would happen to them now. Snape seemed pretty angry. He hadn't said anything about detention or other disciplinary measures, though, and she was afraid to ask. He would probably bring them straight to the Headmaster. They couldn't get expelled for wandering off in Hogsmeade, could they?

As they approached the castle, Hermione recognized the telltale tartan robes of the figure standing stiffly on the front steps. So they were to be left to their Head of House to deal with. Hermione wasn't sure if she was relieved or not. McGonagall was sure to be stricter than Dumbledore, but she really didn't know if she could take a dose of the wily Headmaster just now. She'd barely seen him at all since she'd run into him in Hogsmeade on the first day back after Christmas. She tried to sit with her back to the head table during meals, so she couldn't even vouch for his presence there more often than not.

By being forced to interact with Snape several times a week, the two of them had somehow come to a workable arrangement that allowed both of them to function. Not only that, but Hermione felt she understood him better now, understood what his motivations were, and how he felt about the whole thing, and the terror and loathing she'd felt toward him at first had dulled to become, if not comfortable, then at least noninvasive. But she wasn't any wiser about Dumbledore. She had barely given him another thought since then, truth be told.

Snape at least seemed aware that he had hurt her, had tried in various backhanded ways to help her: By agreeing to share his limited knowledge of Horcruxes; by all but ignoring her in class; by coming to her house over the holidays and ranting about saving what was most dear to her.

Dumbledore had done nothing, made no effort to inquire after her health (although he was probably informed by Madam Pomfrey), follow up on her meetings with Teresa (which, she admitted, he must have arranged), nor question why she had discontinued them. It was like his treatment of Harry the previous year, when he had avoided all contact with Harry because he had feared that Voldemort would see him through Voldemort's connection to Harry's mind.

Did Dumbledore think that something similar was going on with Hermione? That Voldemort had planted some sort of magical bug on her that would enable him to spy on Dumbledore through her? But that was ridiculous, nothing more than paranoia talking. If Dumbledore suspected such a thing, she wouldn't be given free reign of the castle as she was. And he had talked to her at length and in private on more than one occasion (although it had never been he who had initiated the meetings; she had either sought him out, or their meeting had been accidental). No, she simply had to assume that he didn't care, or that he was satisfied with the reports he had received from Madam Pomfrey and Snape. And maybe from Teresa as well?

Hermione had understood that her meetings with Teresa were strictly confidential, but Teresa was a Muggle. Even if she honored the sanctity of their private conversations, she would have no defense against Dumbledore, or any other wizard, should they wish to extract information about their meetings from her. All of a sudden, Hermione was doubly glad that she had Muggle-ified what she'd said to Teresa. If Dumbledore or Snape had access to their conversations, that was disturbing enough; if anyone else tracked her down – Death Eaters or Ministry officials – and Hermione had told the full truth about what had happened, both lives and livelihoods of many people would be endangered. This way, only those who knew the truth anyway would be able to make the connections.

No, Hermione was glad that she was to be turned over to Professor McGonagall. It would mean a severe tongue-lashing and probably a few detentions, but that was much preferable to looking the Headmaster in the eye and wondering if he had been privy to her private conversations, on top of everything else.

Professor McGongall's lips had all but disappeared, so firmly was she pressing them together with displeasure when they arrived.

"Are they all unharmed, Severus?" she asked in a clipped voice, foreshadowing the angry rant that was sure to come once she was assured that they were safe.

"Unfortunately," Snape drawled. "It seems that Finnigan here was overcome by an irresistable desire for Ice Mice, whilst the other two were lollygagging about in Quality Quidditch Supplies."

"Whatever in blue blazes got into the three of you? I am disappointed and ashamed to be your Head of House!"

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but McGonagall whirled around and strode toward the doors. "You will come with me immediately. I will not have a public scene made. You have embarrassed Gryffindor enough already."

Ron and Seamus' shoulders hung down as they started up the steps after her.

Before they could get far, though, Snape cleared his throat: "Minerva? If I might, I would like to have a word with Miss Granger. I will send her up to you immediately afterwards."

Hermione's heart fell into her stomach. What was this? Surely she wouldn't—But Professor McGonagall was speaking already from where she had paused in the doorway.

"Very well," she said with obvious reluctance. "But make it quick, I don't want to have to repeat myself three times."

Snape bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. Hermione watched the three of them disappear with the feeling that the last person on earth she'd thought to be her friend was abandoning her to the lions. Snape swished past her: "Follow me," he snapped on his way to the door, but her feet were rooted to the spot. She, follow him? She wouldn't. She couldn't!

Snape stopped at the top of the steps and frowned down at her. "Come along, Miss Granger. Do not think that you will avoid hearing what I have to tell you. And I will not do it out here. As Professor McGonagall said, I wish to avoid 'a scene'."

Hermione forced herself to move, simply in order to buy time while she thought frantically how she could get away. What did he mean to do to her? Why did he need to talk to her privately? Did this have to do with their adventure in Hogsmeade, or something else entirely? Was it related to the Imperius essay?

Snape headed straight for the nearest door, a cloakroom used for guests and visitors. Hermione balked. He wanted her to enter a closed room, alone, with him? She stopped several feet away from the door and refused to budge, even when he indicated with an angry gesture that she should precede him into the room.

"No," she whispered, even as something inside her protested at her defiance of a teacher, regardless of who the teacher was.

"Miss Granger, I don't have all day. You will get in here, now!"

She shook her head. "No," she said, gaining confidence now. "I won't go in there with you. If you have something to tell me, you can do it here."

Snape stared at her, obviously incensed at being thwarted and weighing the option of forcing her to his will, but finally relented, slamming the cloakroom door closed again.

"What I have to discuss is not for public consumption," he hissed, eyes darting around in search of possible eavesdroppers. "Come closer. Come closer, silly girl!" he repeated. "You have to be within range."

Hermione shuffled a few steps closer, but Snape, impatient, grabbed her arm and pulled her over against the wall, then quickly cast a spell that she didn't quite hear, but was soon revealed by the faint buzzing sound in her ears to be the Half-Blood Prince's famous Muffliato spell. Her mild surprise caused her to forget for the moment the shock of contact. How did he know the spell? Had he known the Half-Blood Prince? Or was Muffliato a widely-known, informal incantation that had never been catalogued by the Ministry?

Snape leaned close to Hermione, so close that she could see the individual strands of his hair stuck to his forehead and the surprisingly graying stubble on his chin. He was only – what? – thirty-eight? She'd never really thought about it, but he looked older than he should for his age, which was doubly surprising, given the generally long life expectancies of wizards. However, her attention was brought back to the present as he spoke with a biting sarcasm.

"Perhaps you can reveal to me why it is that Gryffindors believe they are not only above the law, but also immune to threat of danger," he began.

He didn't give her time to answer -- not that she was even sure it was really a question – but went on, practically shaking with anger.

"You should know, better than anyone else, just how very foolish that little prank was."

Hermione shook her head. "I didn't—"

"Have you learned nothing from the events of this past year?" he asked, making a sweeping gesture with one arm. "You are not safe. There are very, very bad people out there who would think nothing of taking you and using you for their own purposes, up to and including killing you, if the whim should strike them."

"You would know," she said recklessly, fully expecting him to fly off the broomstick.

Instead, the comment seemed to amuse him, for something akin to a smirk appeared on his face: "Yes, Miss Granger, I would know, as do you. Weasley and Finnigan can be excused as having flobberworms in place of brains, but you.... But then you never were good at stopping your friends from entering the den of the lion, even when all human reason cried out for them to stop."

"If it's so unsafe in Hogsmeade, why were we brought there, then?" she tossed back at him.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "While I am unsurprised at your lack of faith in the abilities of the four Heads of House to meet any threats in an appropriate manner, it does surprise me that you wouldn't think that the Headmaster had arranged for further security to be in place both to and from, as well as at the ... dare I call it ... practice hall."

"You mean there were..."

"I'm afraid I cannot reveal any details to you." Snape smiled thinly. "I think you'll understand when I say that I consider you less than reliable at maintaining necessary discretion. The point is that you were safe enough while under supervision."

Hermione scowled at that. Had she told anyone about the attack on Halloween? Anyone who was in any position to jeopardize 'the plan', anyway?

"Which brings up my main reason for this charming tete-a-tete: Why do you insist on putting to naught all efforts to keep you safe? Last year at the Ministry... If you had left it at Potter's tip to me and let trained professionals take care of things, they would never had ended as they did. Not that I mourn Sirius Black's passing, but Potter came awfully close to enabling the Dark Lord to return, openly, to power. Does that mean anything at all to you, Miss Granger?"

Again, he clearly did not expect an answer, and so Hermione did not even bother formulating one.

"Being Muggle-born, and of a young age, you likely have no idea what things were like in the 1970s. It was all but open war. Everyone had to choose a side. One moment you could be sitting around having a chat with your mates, and the next, your intestines might be splattered all over the floor because one of them turned out not to like the color of your family tree. And I can assure you, Gryffindors were not immune to involvement. On either side.

"So unless you wish to end up like Potter's parents, or Black, or any of the countless other oh-so-brave-and-foolhardy of your Housemates, you will keep your nose down, follow instructions to the letter, and stop questioning the wisdom of those older and wiser than yourself. Do I make myself understood?"

Understood? Perfectly, Hermione fumed. It was just like Scrimgeour and Harry: He wanted her to rubber-stamp his and Dumbledore's plans, go along with whatever they said, and quell any uncomfortable questions on the part of other students. The ironic thing was, that was exactly what she had been doing! But to him, it must look like she was trying to instigate trouble and undermine his authority.

It wasn't worth arguing, though. The sooner she could get out of there, the better, so, "Yes, sir," she replied flatly.

"Very good. Because, Miss Granger... I would dislike very much to find you in front of me again as I did last year. I refer of course to the time you turned up down at the lake, alone and after dark."

Hermione burned with embarrassment. She knew that wasn't what he was referring to at all. He was referring to finding her laid out before him, immobilized, scared out of her wits, in that awful hall with the hissing Death Eaters all around. But again, "Of course," she said.

"I am glad we understand each other." With a flick of his wrist, he ended the privacy charm. "I believe your Head of House is waiting for you."

+++000+++000+++


	28. Chapter 28: The Three Ds

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter ****28: Destination, Determination, Deliberation**

As it turned out, aside from a good dressing-down and seven nights of detention, nothing worse came of their little escapade in Hogsmeade. Seamus had even managed to hold on to his Ice Mice, which he shared in the common room to make up for the three of them losing sixty points for Gryffindor.

Harry merely shook his head and smiled faintly when Hermione and Ron told him about it, as if to say, 'If I'd been there, you wouldn't have been caught', and then went back to watching the Map.

He was becoming more and more distant. Hermione couldn't help wondering if it had anything to do with her. Had she alienated him the way she had Ron? But then Harry had distanced himself from Ron as well. Aside from Quidditch practices and their dorm at night, the two boys didn't spend any time together at all. The break between Ron and Harry was mostly due to Lavender, it was true, but even since Ron had been trying to avoid Lavender, he hadn't returned to his formerly permanent position at Harry's side. They were all growing up, and growing apart, Hermione concluded somewhat forlornly.

She retreated to the library, as usual, dividing her time between school work, a last-ditch dig for information on the still-elusive 'Horcrux', and a blind search for anything that might relate to the 'Half-Blood Prince'.

She quickly found and exhausted the lists of Royals. As she had suspected, there was no mention of any member of the British Royal family in the twentieth century with wizard blood. However, she became quite excited upon discovering two books written by a certain Marcellus Prince in the early decades of the nineteenth century. They were obscure, astrologic texts, which didn't connect in any way with either potion-making or little-known spells of questionable ethics. Still, it gave her the hope that Prince was a real name and not a title, either hereditary or invented. If only she had access to class lists!

Her experience at the Apparition lesson had instilled her with a renewed zeal to apply herself to her studies as well. It irked her no end to have the feeling that anyone, especially the professors, might actually think that she wasn't as clever and capable as she had always felt she was. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost her thirst for knowledge, and even if she didn't quite have it back yet, she felt now that she had something to prove, something to live up to, and she wasn't going to settle for A's on her assignments any more.

Of course, Harry and Ron had never doubted her academic abilities, and now Ron – after a sulk of a few days – had come to her and asked for help with Apparition, too. Hermione was at a bit of a loss: She'd never been good at physical activities before, certainly never better than Ron or Harry, and it wasn't easy to explain how to Apparate. On top of that, they couldn't actually try anything out until the next practice session in Hogsmeade. But she duly went through the motions, and tried to put into words how she'd gotten in the right frame of mind, without using such abstract terms as 'destination, determination, and deliberation', which made Ron's eyes glaze over at the first D.

Ron's problem was, he seemed to think that there was something wrong with his movements. To him, Apparition was all in the body, and he didn't seem to grasp that he needed to do more mental work than simply to think of where he wanted to go. And so he had her twirl around in the courtyard until she was positively dizzy, studying the positions of her hands and feet, wanting to know if she shifted her weight forward or back, whether she spun clockwise or counter-clockwise. At first, she was extremely self-conscious about him looking at her body so much, feeling herself awkward and exposed. Although he never mentioned it again, she still was very much aware that he knew that she had been raped, and she avoided looking him in the eye, afraid of what she would see in his expression.

Still, she forced herself to do it, both because she hoped to salvage something of their old friendship, and because she was determined not to let What Had Happened stop her from living her life anymore. She would not be a slave to that one experience. She knew that she had changed in a lot of ways, as a result of it, and maybe a lot of them were things she wasn't even aware of, but she did know that she had become fearful, inhibited, and withdrawn. This was probably a perversion of her natural tendency to be cautious, drawn out to the extreme as a defense mechanism, and it was not a development which she welcomed. Going along with Ron and Seamus had been one semi-conscious effort on her part to counteract it, and now putting her body on display (albeit well-clothed and in a most non-prurient manner) was another. This was _her_ body. She would use it as _she_ chose.

And in the end, something about her methods must have worked, because at the very next Apparition lesson, Ron popped out of sight, and Hermione was so happy for both of them that she jumped up and down... until, that is, Lavender caught her eye, and it wasn't anger that she saw so much as a desolate sort of sadness, and she felt bad. She wished that things had worked out differently; for all of them. But it was all too clear to her that Ron was over his infatuation with Lavender. She honestly didn't think any more that he had any feelings for herself, either, other than companionable ones. He was never overly solicitous toward her, nor did he stare at her when he thought she wasn't looking, the way Viktor had been and done, or the way Harry did at Ginny (yes, she had noticed that).

One more thing of note happened on that last Apparition practice weekend: Harry had stayed back at the castle, as usual, and on their return, reported that he had run into Tonks in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement, where he had been trying to catch Malfoy. The story she'd told Harry about being there to see Dumbledore was threadbare at best: Dumbledore wasn't even around, having gone off on another one of his mysterious trips, and if the student body at large was aware of that fact, then how could an on-duty Auror not have known it?

"She's supposed to be guarding the school against threats from the outside," Hermione began thinking out loud. "Why is she suddenly abandoning her post to come and see Dumbledore when he's not even here?" The fact that she was near the Room of Requirement couldn't possibly be a coincidence. Hermione was afraid to say it to Harry, but she was fairly certain that Dumbledore must have told Tonks to keep an eye on Malfoy's comings and goings through the Room in his absence; virtual proof that he knew Malfoy was using it to Apparate in and out of the castle. Luckily, Harry distracted himself by trying to explain away Tonks' appearance with her being so upset over Sirius' death that she'd gotten confused about Dumbledore not being around, a conjecture that was not only illogical but insulting to Tonks' professional character.

Hermione wasn't inclined to clarify things for Harry, either, and so she redirected the conversation toward a run-down of how things had been in Hogsmeade this time. Neither Snape nor McGonagall had let them out of their sight for an instant (other than when they had Apparated a few yards away), which had made Hermione feel positively patronised. She had also felt quite superior, though, when Twycross praised her Apparition in front of the entire group, eliciting a relieved and prideful glow from Professor McGonagall and a sour scowl from Professor Snape. It was as if he begrudged her any success; but of course, it had less to do with her in particular and more to do with Gryffindors in general, she knew. Still, it felt good to have his nose rubbed in her accomplishments over those of his precious Draco Malfoy, who, although he had achieved Apparition before her, apparently did not have the same style, grace, and precision as she. Or so Mr. Twycross had put it, over Butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks, where the House Heads had brought the entire group as a reward (and probably in order to forestall anyone else getting it into their heads to sneak off again).

And so Hermione felt, for the first time in many months, that things were actually looking up. With her research on Horcruxes and the Half-Blood Prince, she had something to work towards, something else to focus on other than her inner turmoil. With Apparition, she had been successful at something again, praised and fawned over by authority figures. Her friendship with Harry and Ron bore at least a vague resemblance to its previous state.

The only dark spots were Defense class – where she couldn't seem to shake the vestiges of unease around Snape, although he didn't seem to bear her any additional ill will for their last encounter -- and the minutes between lights out and sleep, when the unease returned, amplified by her imagination imbuing every shadow, creak, and waft of air with sinister properties. Still, she felt that the chains that had held her back for so long were weakening.

+++000+++000+++

"You were really close, Ron," Hermione tried to placate him as they walked back with the group from their Apparition licensing exam. "If it'd been me, I would've passed you. I can't believe they even noticed."

"One eyebrow. A half an eyebrow!" He jabbed at the offending feature. "Who needs half a bloody eyebrow?"

"I know. Still, I suppose they can't be too careful. If it'd been just a little lower, you might've ended up like Professor Moody." She meant it half as a joke, but it came off sounding preachy and pedantic.

"Next time I'm just going to shave my eyebrows off beforehand. I'll show them who's missing half an eyebrow." He glared at the backs of the students ahead of them, which included Lavender. She hadn't even bothered trying to walk with Ron this time.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at Ron's remark, although from the intensity of his glower, she knew that she was rubbing salt into the wound.

"Go ahead and laugh, Miss Perfect Apparition –" Ron floundered for words. "—Apparator." He thrust his big hands up under his arms.

Hermione looked nervously up ahead at Lavender and Parvati, walking arm-in-arm. Despite their big show of ignoring Ron and Hermione, Hermione knew that her two roommates were straining to hear every word that passed between herself and Lavender's still-official boyfriend. Hermione felt like a traitor, and wished that Ron would just clear the air with Lavender once and for all.

She slid the tip of her wand out of her sleeve and as inconspicuously as possible (they had been told they wouldn't need to bring their wands along), cast a Muffliato spell on herself. She was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that Professor Snape had used the same spell in her presence just last week, and she felt slightly dirty for using it now, but she couldn't think of any other quick and easy way to keep Lavender from overhearing the conversation she meant to have with Ron.

"Ron..." she began hesitantly. "What happened between you and Lavender?

Ron frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know..." she prompted. "The two of you used to be... well, inseparable, to say the least. But lately, you've obviously been avoiding her."

"I have not," he grunted sullenly, sending a quick look at the back of Lavender's head.

"Ron, you look for a hiding place whenever you think you hear her voice," Hermione reminded him. "You cowered behind me in the courtyard this morning because you thought Melinda Whitetail was Lavender."

"I was not cowering. I was placing myself in a strategic position to survey the yard," he said, but the way his eyes shifted around told another story.

"Ron!"

Ron sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "She's just ... a little too intense," he admitted. "She's a great girl. Just ... well, you're her roommate. You know."

"I know. I know that she spent all morning crying, wondering what she's done wrong, why you don't like her anymore."

Ron cringed.

"Ron, you have to talk to her."

He sighed. "Every time I do, she somehow... I mean, we somehow end up..." Ron's ears were red as he looked at Hermione out of the corner of his eye.

"I think I get the picture, thank you," she said, avoiding his gaze and trying not to think of the two of them locking lips. "But... I guess I'm not quite clear on things, then, and I don't think she is, either. Are you still going out with her or not?"

"I don't—I mean.... Gah! Why do I have to answer that? Things are the way they are, why do you girls always want to pin us down and have names for everything?"

"Ron, the way you're acting... Well, it's not very nice to Lavender, is it? On the one hand, you can hardly stand to be in the same room with her, and on the other hand, when she finally does corner you, you ... Well, you don't discourage her from expressing her affection, let's put it that way."

"I'm a guy, Hermione!"

"Come on, you're not telling me that just because you're a male of the species, that gives you the right to use her to get your jollies, regardless of her feelings, are you?" Hermione cringed inwardly at how screechy she sounded and tried to calm down.

"I think you're taking this way too seriously, Hermione," he said in a low voice. "Letting what happened to you color your view of everything. I'm not forcing her into anything. I'm not going to rape her, if that's what you're worried about."

All the color drained from Hermione's face. She felt like someone had just socked her in the gut, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

Ron looked around at her to see why she'd stopped, then rolled his eyes. "Oh God, oh come on, Hermione, you know I didn't mean it like that! Come on." He reached out and tried to pull her along, but she twitched away, shooting glances around to see if anyone was paying attention to them.

Right on cue, Professor Flitwick marched up behind them, trilling, "Keep up with the group, Miss Granger and Mister Weasley!" He said it lightly, but there was a firmness to his manner that said they were being kept on a short lead.

Hermione forced herself to move forward. Ron fell into step beside her again. She was angry at him, but now that she thought about it: Why? He was right: She did let what had happened to her color her view of many things. She'd made an unthought-out comment herself.

She heard Ron stumbling through an apology and interrupted him: "No, Ron, you're right. I'm sorry. Whatever's going on with you and Lavender, it has nothing to do with what happened to me. I shouldn't have accused you like that."

"Well, I can see where you're coming from," he said, now magnanimous. "And you're right, I guess I should really buck up and come clean with her. It's not right."

"It's not that I want the two of you to break up, you realize," Hermione clarified, feeling her anger dissipate and the beginnings of a slow panic come upon her. She didn't want him to think that she was trying to maneuver her way into position.

"I know. Just wasn't meant to be, I reckon." He shrugged and gave Hermione a small smile.

"But ..." And now they were back to the point they'd been in the infirmary, when she'd blurted out her confession. "This isn't about me, either, is it?" she asked carefully. "That things didn't work out between you and Lavender?" She held her breath.

"Not really.... I mean, yeah, in a way," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck, and Hermione felt hot and cold all over. "It's just that she started in on you, how your... you know, about your looks and stuff, not that I noticed or anything, I always thought you looked ... you know, normal ... but she was pretty mean, saying that you'd let yourself go... and how you weren't really that smart after all, she was getting better marks in Defence... And then you told me what had happened, and it all started to make sense, and I got really angry about how unfair she was being, and that she was wrong, but I couldn't tell her what had really happened. And even if I had, I don't think she would have been any better. So... yeah, in a way, it just showed me what she was really like. I guess she was just showing her true colors. But you won't tell her I said that, will you? I mean, she's really not that bad." He looked at her with his earnest, blue eyes from underneath his ragged fringe, and she just wanted to cry. For all that she had lost. For all the indignities she had suffered. For the way she'd treated Ron, when all along he'd been thinking of her.

She swallowed hard and forced her voice to sound firm. "No, I won't tell her. But you have to. Not the part about me, but you have to tell her that you don't think you can be her boyfriend anymore."

"I know. I just don't know how to do it. I'm bollocks at this relationship stuff."

"Oh, I don't know, Ron. I think you do just fine."

+++000+++000+++


	29. Chapter 29: Unfinished Business

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 29: Unfinished Business**

"What were you doing up there with her?" Lavender screeched as Hermione and Ron came down from the boys' dormitory. Harry, under his Invisibility Cloak and on his way out the portrait hole to attend Aragog's funeral under the influence of Felix Felicis, could not serve as an alibi for them.

Ron hemmed and hawed while Hermione said coolly, "Get your head out of the gutter, Lavender. It is possible for a boy and a girl to be in a room together without one or the other of them losing their clothes. Right, Ron?" she said pointedly, then added, "I'm sure the two of you have important things to discuss," and walked away.

Behind her, she could hear Lavender whinging, "What did she mean, Ron?" She didn't envy him one bit. But she hoped that he would finally do the right thing.

Either way, it was probably better if she made herself scarce for a while, so she slipped out of the common room. She briefly considered trying to go down to Hagrid's hut herself, just to make sure that Harry hadn't completely gone barmy, but decided against it; Hagrid wouldn't let Harry get into too much trouble, and remembering what had happened when she'd gone with Ron and Seamus to try and keep an eye on them, she was better off just staying put. She didn't want to risk another run-in with Snape, especially not out on the grounds after dark.

Not that she was really afraid of him anymore; she just didn't want to listen to another lecture from him about not putting herself in danger. If he was so concerned, he should work on keeping the Death Eaters away. Which, it occurred to her as she wandered down the stairs, perhaps he was. She was still undecided as to where his true loyalties lay, if anywhere. Dumbledore clearly believed that Snape was working for him from within the Death Eater organization. On the other hand, she thought that Voldemort would probably be pretty quick to weed out any traitors. Of course, that was what Snape had meant when he'd told her that he would have been severely punished had he not gone along with the Halloween terror.

Oh, it was all so tiresome. That was it. She was just tired of the whole thing. Tired of being nervous and uncomfortable in her own skin; tired of second-guessing every move and word of Snape and Dumbledore; tired of trying to justify her actions and reactions, analyzing everything to death. Why couldn't she just get on with things that interested her? And she did have interests again. She hadn't for quite a while, but she did now. She wanted to find out what Horcruxes were, and get to the bottom of the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book. Those were good starting points.

But she knew she wasn't quite ready to put everything past behind her. Her subconscious wasn't able to let it go yet, although the immediacy of the pain had receded enough to be relegated to the edges of her waking moments. She didn't think she'd ever get more completion from Snape than what she'd already gotten: The knowledge that he himself had been victimized in order to hurt her, that what he'd done had in no way come out of any feelings or impulses that originated with him. He had been little more than an instrument, and had his own demons to fight with.

She still hoped to find out what Dumbledore's great plan was, and hoped that when she did, it would make her feel that her sacrifice had not been in vain. But she knew that for that, she would have to wait at least until Voldemort was defeated, which might still be a way off (although she hoped of course that it would be sooner rather than later).

But there was something that had been gnawing at her for a while, that she'd been avoiding, and that she could take care of now. Lisa and Sandy. She hadn't sent a single word to Sandy since she'd seen her on the Express and found out she was pregnant. And she still hadn't answered Lisa's letter. Oonagh didn't seem to need or want anything from Hermione, but Lisa had reached out to her. She felt somewhat hypocritical, having told Ron to be honest with Lavender, when she hadn't been honest with Lisa. And so she turned to go up to the owlery.

+++000+++000+++

She stayed away as long as she could, but didn't want to be caught out after curfew. She was dying to hear whether Harry had been successful with the help of the Felix Felicis, but refrained from going up to his dorm. She would just have to wait until tomorrow. Neither Ron nor Lavender was in the common room when she passed through, which could be either good or bad... but at least it looked like little to no blood had been shed while she was gone.

She started up the stairs and nearly ran into Ginny, who was on her way down, dressed in her pyjamas and artfully holding her head so that her long hair obscured her face from view. Hermione had done that often enough to recognize the ploy: either Ginny had been messing with too many beauty charms, or she'd been crying.

"Hi Ginny," Hermione said. "Forget something?"

"Yeah, I... just left my bookbag down in the common room," she said, still keeping her face turned away from Hermione. Her voice sounded stuffy and raw. Crying, then.

"I'll get it for you," Hermione offered. "I know what it looks like."

"Thanks," Ginny said, and Hermione could hear the relief in her voice.

It only took Hermione a few minutes to find Ginny's bag, shoved half-way under one of the couches. By the time she brought it back, Ginny had apparently composed herself and smiled at Hermione, looking fairly normal.

"Thanks a lot, Hermione. I don't like going down in my pyjamas, but I must have forgotten to take it up with me and I really needed one of the books." She took the bag from Hermione and stood up again.

"No problem," Hermione said, although she knew that Ginny had been in the common room in her pyjamas plenty of times without embarrassment before.

"Hey, do you... I mean, is there anything going on?" Hermione asked, feeling awkward.

"No, everything's..." Ginny's cheerful demeanor faltered. "Is it that obvious?" She patted at her cheeks with the back of one hand.

"No, I just thought... you know, if anything's going on. You look fine. Better than me, anyway." She giggled nervously.

"Why?" Ginny frowned. "I mean... is there anything going on with you? Lavender didn't do anything to you, did she?" Ginny inspected Hermione more closely.

"No! Why?" she said, drawing back involuntarily.

"Didn't you hear? You must not have been here, I thought the whole castle could hear her screaming at him!" Ginny chortled. "She really let him have it. About time, too. He'd been walking all over her for weeks. It was painful to watch."

Hermione sighed. "Oh good. I mean, not good for Ron, but good that it's over with. I'm sorry for both of them it ended up being so traumatic."

"I'm not. He was being a real git."

"I suppose." Hermione couldn't help feeling just a little bit of satisfaction, knowing what Ron had told her about Lavender's bad-mouthing her behind her back.

"I guess there's a lot of that going around Gryffindor," Ginny added cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

Now it was Ginny's turn to sigh. "I broke up with Dean."

Hermione's mouth dropped. "What? Why?"

Ginny scowled. "He was always trying to be nice, but I could tell it was fake, he was only trying to make up for laughing when Harry got hurt. And I think he only wanted one thing from me anyway, if you know what I mean, and he wasn't going to get it. It just wasn't worth it for either of us anymore."

"I'm really sorry, Ginny."

"Me too, in a way. I mean, I really liked him. I think I still do. I just kept getting angry whenever I was with him, instead of being happy. That's how all of my relationships have ended up, you know? I really like the guy, but I'm never happy with them. I think there must be something wrong with me."

"I'm sure that's not it, Ginny. You just haven't met the right one yet. And maybe you don't need anyone," Hermione pointed out. "Or maybe you have to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with someone else."

Ginny regarded Hermione thoughtfully for a moment. "You know, I think there's definitely something to that. Thanks, Hermione," she said, this time with a genuine smile as she shouldered her bag. "I hope things work out for you, too."

"Thanks. I think they may be getting there."

+++000+++000+++

Snape raced across the grounds, far outpacing Draco. His young charge wasn't making any attempt to keep up with him anyway; let him get caught out after curfew and take the consequences, Snape jeered to himself. He wouldn't cover for him this time, would come down on him as his Head of House as he was expected to. He always did what was expected, after all.

He had no reason to hurry, but the feeling of speed, the wind rushing past his ears, cooling the sweat off of his neck, made him feel that he might still be able to get away; yet he knew that he couldn't, that it was only a momentary illusion, this feeling of freedom. Strangely, though, it was the rest of his life that felt like an illusion. The craziness of it all: Lord Voldemort, Death Eaters, soul magic and death pacts. Even though he had grown up knowing about magic, what he had gotten himself into (yes, he was the only one to blame, no one had forced it on him) went far beyond mending broken flowerpots and jumping down from roofs. So much of it was based on belief; faith. It was almost a religion. Or was it already one?

Dumbledore was going to die. He had never believed it, not until tonight; no: he still didn't believe it, it was impossible. Albus Dumbledore had always been there, was invincible. But tonight, before he had been Summoned, he had been in Dumbledore's office, talking to the Headmaster (arguing, begging, more like), and he had seen the facade begin to crack. He had thought for a moment that his mentor was crying – maybe he had been – that he was losing touch with this world, already halfway into the next. There was no stopping the progress of the curse. It was no use trying, although he kept going through the motions, both of them did, applying the counter-curses, the salves, the stop-gap measures. He had the feeling that they were both doing it to appease the other, to try and fool each other into thinking that they didn't both know what was going to happen, what had to happen.

He had never tried to imagine what it would be like with Dumbledore gone (he couldn't bring himself yet to think the word: 'dead') – no, he would simply be gone, gone on another one of his mysterious journeys (where in the world he kept disappearing to, Snape honestly had no idea).

But tonight, at the gathering of Death Eaters, Draco had announced that he was ready. The boy (young man? No, truly yet still a boy) had seemed in equal parts relieved and terrified, yet he was adamant that everything was in place this time, that they only need await the perfect opportunity... the next time Dumbledore went on one of his trips. When that might be, Draco admitted nervously, he couldn't say, (and nor could Snape, he assured the Dark Lord in all honesty), but he was certain that it would be soon, very soon, perhaps within a week, certainly before the end of term.

Snape had not missed the uneasy glances Draco had cast in Greyback's direction, and that had made him uneasy as well, because he would have known how to deal with any of the wizards, but the werewolf was unpredictable. Irrational. Worse than Bellatrix (who was, for all her craziness, quite easy to manipulate). Draco must have been desperate indeed to turn to him, and Snape couldn't even begin to guess what those plans might be. Did they think to catch Dumbledore outside the castle? Attack him unawares? But how would they know when the Headmaster left the grounds? He confided his plans in no one, often left the grounds briefly, to go to the Ministry, to Hogsmeade, Gringotts, any one of a hundred valid and public destinations. Snape doubted very much that even Fenrir Greyback would be able to follow Dumbledore undetected and launch a surprise attack, must less divine his destination beforehand and waylay him with a trap.

It would likely end in disaster for an innocent bystander instead, like the necklace and the poison had. Be that as it may, Dumbledore's end was near, one way or the other. Because this was Draco's last chance, of that Snape was certain. If this plan of his didn't end in Dumbledore's death, it would end in either Draco's or Narcissa's.

+++000+++000+++

"My, but this is an eventful evening. Do come in, Severus." It was well past midnight, but Professor Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk. He was deathly pale, his skin taut over his bones, but he looked more alive than he had in weeks. Snape did not fail to notice the full Pensieve glittering off to the side, and wondered if that were the cause, but made himself focus only on his own errand.

"You must not make any more of your trips out of Hogwarts," he said before he even sat down. "That is Draco's next plan."

"Please, sit down, Severus," Dumbledore said, graciously indicating a chair. "You seem quite agitated. A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Dammit, no!" Snape paced around the room, wound up and agitated.

Dumbledore leaned back, steepling his fingers before his beard. "Tell me. What have you found out?"

"Nothing! I have tried Legilimency; I am afraid that was what finally pushed him away from me. He is getting help from Bellatrix and the werewolf."

"Remus?" Dumbledore seemed genuinely suprised.

"No! Greyback!"

"Ah yes, of course," Dumbledore murmured. "But what does this have to do with my trips outside the castle?"

"I don't know!" he exclaimed, his frustation evident. "But Draco says the next time you go, the plan will be put into action. They may try to follow you, ambush you..."

"I always take precautions against such attempts," Dumbledore assured him, not quite avoiding being condescending. "Still, I appreciate the warning. I will take extra care."

"And if not? If they do manage it... and I am not there?"

"Then Mr. Malfoy had better have good aim and an unwavering heart."

"Dash it all!" Snape shouted. "Why must you make jokes about this! It doesn't matter anyway-- I cannot do it!"

"We have been through this—" Dumbledore began speaking with an unusual sharpness.

"No!" Snape said with equal irritation. "I do not mean that I am unwilling... I mean.... I cannot!" He was embarrassed and looked away. "I... do not hate you. I will be unable to summon the necessary emotion."

The elderly wizard's features softened. He may even have become misty around the eyes. "Severus. Ah, my poor boy."

Snape seethed. It was bad enough to have to admit his affection for the old coot, but to be fawned over like this...

"Why do you suppose I have been prattling on about love all this time? You do not need to hate me – in fact I have told you time and again that you must not act out of hatred (although I would not blame you if you did). If you do, it will only destroy your soul."

Ah, now they were back on familiar territory: Dumbledore the pedantic old sentimentalist, Snape the sarcastic contrarian. He made a dismissive sound.

"If I have one, it is quite beyond hope at this point," Snape muttered.

"Do not say that!" Dumbledore chided him. "Pretend for my sake. Humour me, an old man."

"Regardless," Snape said with his practiced sneer, "the Killing Curse is very much Dark magic. Based on ... previous experiences," he said obliquely, "it needs a large pulse of negative emotion toward its target. As aggravating as I find many of your decisions and impulses, I do not believe that I will be able to fuel a curse of that magnitude." At some level, he was pleased to be so difficult, although it was also clear to him that this was no more than a stalling tactic.

"I am touched, Severus. Truly. But let us examine the facts: all three of the so-called Unforgivable Curses depend upon the emotion of the caster, specifically his feelings toward the target. This much is true. You must desire to impose your will an another, to cause pain, to end a life. And that desire must be great; greater, the more serious the curse. It is true that it is easiest to harness hate, anger, jealousy, to these curses. But it is also true that where hate is strong, love is stronger.

"I submit to you that – what I have been trying to nudge you toward all along, in my clumsy way – it is possible – it must be possible – to focus enough love in your heart, in your veins, in your wand, to power the Killing Curse. If your desire is great enough – if your love is great enough – you will be able to cast it. You will, Severus. I know it."

Snape was both revolted and enthralled by the Headmaster's words. To cast the Killing Curse with love... All along, he had assumed that Dumbledore had meant that he, Snape, should act out of loyalty and gratitude, or whatever affection he held for his long-time protector (dare he call him friend?), but that to cast the curse itself, it went without saying, he would draw on his copious reserves of resentment, wrath, and indignation. There could be no trial run, of course, so once again it would be an act of the ultimate faith. Did Snape believe Dumbledore's theory? If so, would he even be able to focus enough love to cast the spell? Dumbledore would never know the difference, if it worked, either way. Snape's last act of loyalty for him could at the same time be his last betrayal.

+++000+++000+++


	30. Chapter 30: The Kindest Cut

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_Author's Note: Some dialogue in this chapter was taken directly from HBP, Chapter 24: Sectumsempra._

**Chapter 30**

**The Kindest Cut**

Love. What did he know about love? It was ridiculous. He tossed back the last of his drink. A nebulous image of a smiling face surrounded by long, red hair floated at the edges of his awareness, but he shut it firmly out. It was perverse, always thinking of her when it came to love. He hadn't really loved her. Been infatuated, perhaps, even lusted after her. A common ailment of teenage boys, he knew from his vast experience over the years with the species. But love? No. He was certain he had never experienced that actual emotion. He had been spared, he thought bitterly. On the other hand, if he had never loved anyone and thus had no basis for comparison, how was he to know that what he had felt for Lily was not in fact the real thing?

He was going by what others had said, of course, poets and philosophers, yes, even Albus Dumbledore, for he had never discussed the subject with anyone else. If the term 'discussion' could even be applied to the many lectures, hints, aphorisms, and admonishments that the old Headmaster had graced Snape with over the years, while he himself had done little more than sneer and grunt at such romantic nonsense. And yet, some of his mentor's philosophy and teaching must have rubbed off on him, for he didn't completely discount the possibility that love was a real phenomenon, albeit as intangible as the soul; and perhaps for that very reason were the two so closely intertwined in fable, myth, and theory.

He did use his memories of good times with Lily, when they had been children, to fuel his Patronus. If he had any other recourse, he certainly would have used it (luckily, not many people realized the doe's significance, but those who did simply wouldn't shut up about it), but the fact was, there had been no other happy moments in his life. Was that pathetic? But then who needed happiness? He had come this far without it, and was still successful, healthy, and well-respected. And the most positive aspect was, without love or any true source of happiness, there was nothing to keep him anchored in this life, nothing and no one that he would miss or who would miss him. He wasn't wallowing, just being practical, he told himself as he turned off the lights and waited for sleep to claim him. Just being practical.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione was very excited. Not only had Harry's adventure with Felix Felicis been successful, but they had found out what Horcruxes were. And they had nothing to do with potions or Snape, more's the better.

Although it was of course ghastly, committing murder in order to give oneself a chance at immortality, Hermione couldn't help but be curious herself about the mechanism, and about the kind of mind that could have conceived of such a thing. She herself didn't find making six Horcruxes that much more horrible than making one, and wondered why Voldemort was the first to have thought of it; it was only logical, after all, that if one were serious about safeguarding one's link to this life, one would take all possible precautions against that link being destroyed, including making more than one copy. Any good archivist knew that.

One more thing had struck her, after she'd asked Harry that evening, when they had more privacy than in Charms class, to go over the memory again. Of course he couldn't remember all of the exact words, but he had been certain that the Slughorn in the memory had mentioned the fact that Horcruxes had been banned as a subject at Hogwarts by that time already (else why would Riddle have sought him out secretly to interrogate him about it), and that Dumbledore (even back then, when he was just one of the teachers) had had very strong feelings on the subject. Ergo: Dumbledore had known all along what Horcruxes were. He had purposely withheld the information from Harry. On a 'need to know basis', she thought bitterly.

And of course that was also why she had been unable to find any information about Horcruxes in the library, not even in the Restricted Section. All that time she'd spent poring over books, wasted.... Well, maybe not; after all, she had come across many interesting – if disturbing—things, and one never knew when such information might come in handy. But again, if only Dumbledore had come completely clean with Harry, told him what exactly he was after.... Not that it probably would have mattered one way or the other, as it turned out that he had been after the certainty that Tom Riddle was planning to make seven Horcruxes, not just one. The certainty that the diary had just been a test, and the ring not the only other Horcrux that had been made. Dumbledore already knew what Horcruxes were, and had recognized the diary as one long ago.

The question for Hermione was: Was this in any way related to her keeping Snape's secret? Did Snape know about the Horcruxes as well? Had he lied to her and Ron? Most likely he had, and it made her sick and angry to know that she'd been played for a fool. But what should she do? March into Snape's office and accuse him of lying to her? He would gladly admit it, so that he could laugh at her. No. She had to stop giving him a place in her life.

+++000+++000+++

Was this what he'd been reduced to? Skulking around like some second-rate private eye? It would be so easy... three drops of Veritaserum, and he'd know what Draco was up to. But then there would be the obligatory Obliviation afterward, a tricky prospect at best. Dumbledore should have kept Lockhart on instead. The pompous windbag wouldn't have had the nerve for the rest of what Snape had to do, though. Snape was not comforted.

It was no use trying to cajole Draco into confiding in him any more. Try as Snape might, Draco had remained suspicious of his motives, which was actually quite interesting, when one considered that Snape had managed to convince the Dark Lord himself, not to mention Bellatrix Lestrange, that he was one hundred percent and completely in the Dark Lord's service. What was it that kept Draco so wary? It was true that Draco didn't like him much, but then neither did Bella, or anyone else, other than perhaps Dumbledore. The only answer that Snape could come up with was so mawkish and Dumbledore-esque that he shuddered to dwell on it: Apparently, Draco's love for his mother was greater than his fear for his own life. If all Draco cared about were his own neck, he would have many courses of action, from confiding in Snape and seeking his help, to turning to the Order, to leaving the country. But his best chance for keeping his mother safe – and this was how Snape saw it, too – was to fulfill the Dark Lord's orders to the letter, which meant arranging and carrying out the assignment on his own. Was Snape touched by this apparent proof that Dumbledore was right about love being stronger than any Dark magic? Hardly. It only made him angrier at Draco and more determined not to let him win this round.

And so here he was, attempting through crude and primitive methods to find out what the boy was up to, and prevent him from killing himself or anyone else in the process. Crippled by the fact that he had to be present in the classroom for large portions of the day, he had made little headway. He suspected that Potter quite possibly knew more about Draco's comings and goings than he did; he hadn't failed to notice Potter shadowing Draco as well, although he felt quite superior and confident that Potter, in return, had not spotted him. He wasn't surprised at Potter's interest; he seemed to be drawn like a magnet to the people and places most likely to get him killed. He doubted very much that Potter had any real idea what Draco was doing, nor why he was doing it. One reason for this belief was that Potter was always alone. If he were aware of there being a plot against the life of his mentor, he would somehow have dragged his two dreary sidekicks into it. No, this seemed more like he was simply hoping to catch Draco at something so that he could report him to McGonagall. The boy had no imagination.

The only thing Snape was confident of regarding Draco's plans was that he was spending a lot of time in the Come-and-Go Room, where the ill-fated Dumbledore's Army group had been caught last year. He could imagine only that Draco was doing something similar: practicing spells, or running through an ambush scenario.

At least he was certain that Draco wasn't meeting with anyone; he always went in alone, although by now Snape had figured out what the Polyjuice potion had really been for. As if two first-year girls standing aimlessly around in the seventh-floor corridor were any less suspicious than two sixth-year boys.

+++000+++000+++

The trio's relationship had improved by leaps and bounds, seemingly overnight. The watershed events of Harry's getting the Horcrux information and Ron's break-up with Lavender had lifted a great invisible weight from their collective shoulders, and they spent their free period that afternoon laughing about Harry's retelling of Aragog's 'funeral'.

When they got back to the common room, Hermione thought she was seeing a ghost at first, but the jubilant group around Katie Bell soon convinced her that the girl was real flesh and blood.

Harry, of course, couldn't think of anything other than Quidditch, but Hermione was more interested in hearing about what had happened that day in Hogsmeade. Unfortunately, Katie couldn't remember anything beyond going into the loo at the Three Broomsticks.

That was enough for Hermione to come up with a new theory, though: Whoever had cast the Imperius Curse on her was in all likelihood female. Her thoughts jumped immediately to Pansy or Millicent ... or both. Harry was of the opinion that it must have been Crabbe or Goyle, Polyjuiced, but Hermione secretly dismissed the idea as preposterous: Since when could either of those lunkheads cast such a forceful, Dark curse? She didn't contradict Harry out loud, though, because she didn't want to lead him down the path that she was fearing: That there were more Death Eaters amongst the student body than just Draco. Of course, it might have been Draco himself who had put Katie under the Imperius. Hermione had no problem believing that he had the fortitude of will and skill to do it. But telling Harry that she knew Draco was a Death Eater meant telling about what had happened on Halloween, and although she had considered telling Harry earlier, she was apprehensive now. It was enough that her relationship with Ron had been irrevocably altered. Maybe exactly for that reason, she wanted now more than ever to preserve the innocence and purity of her friendship with Harry. It was all she had left of her earlier self.

Even as her relationship with Harry and Ron was getting back on track, Hermione couldn't help noticing the new way Harry was looking at Ginny. She wondered whether it was the break-up with Dean that had precipitated his growing interest, or whether he'd been biding his time all along. Truthfully, since his disastrous and brief-lived fling with Cho, Harry had shown absolutely no interest in any girls at all, preferring instead to concentrate on Quidditch and his pursuit of Draco Malfoy. For that reason, Hermione concluded that Ginny had never really figured as a point of interest to Harry, other than as a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Of course, that might also have been because because Ginny had pretty much always had a steady boyfriend since hitting puberty, but now her newly-single status had caused Harry to see her in a new light.

And it didn't look like Ginny minded it, either. She seemed to have gotten over Dean extremely quickly, unlike Lavender, whom Hermione caught sobbing into her pillow more often than she would have liked. But Ginny appeared to be happy and light-hearted, whether with friends or on her own, quick to smile and the first to be up for a round of whatever was being played in the common room. Hermione watched her again – surreptitiously, she hoped – looking for some crack in her facade, some quiet moment when her true feelings might show forth, but try as she might, she never saw any further indication that Ginny might have been distraught over Dean, other than when she'd run into her on the stairs that first night.

She was either heartless, or a master at dissembling. Well, she was Fred and George's sister, if that meant anything.

Hermione didn't have much time to pursue Harry and Ginny's relationship, though, as the school year was rapidly approaching its climax, and she was determined to make up for her slackness over the past several months.

Arithmancy in particular was a class that was difficult to catch up in; it wasn't that she didn't understand the material, but that the overall mark for the class was determined by a complicated formula, in which the marks on all previous assignments figured heavily. As she'd been skimming along for most of the school year, she couldn't hope to ace the class simply by pulling down an O on the final exam. She'd calculated that she might possibly be able to scrape an O if Professor Vector would let her re-do a couple of assignments, or else do an extra-credit project.

Later, she thought: if only she hadn't left Harry alone when she went to discuss it with Professor Vector. She could have asked him to tag along. Or better yet, she could have forgotten about trying to improve her grades for once. What kind of a friend was she, anyway? But she hadn't, and it had happened.

Sectumsempra.

+++000+++000+++

Well, well, well. Wasn't this curious? Snape almost stepped out of the alcove he was hiding in, but decided to wait and see what would happen after all. It might turn out to be nothing more than a perverse coincidence that Potter had just gone into the same bathroom that Draco had been in for the last ten minutes. He had been beginning to wonder just what exactly Draco was getting up to in there, but whatever it was, he felt fairly confident that Potter barging in on him would put a stop to it. He smirked to himself. It would probably kill Potter to know that he was inadvertently acting as Snape's agent.

When that infernal female ghost had begun screaming, he had feared the worst; he was actually quite relieved to see that it was Draco who was lying on the bathroom floor, rapidly exsanguinating.

Once the gashes on Draco's chest were closed, however, he looked around for Potter with great relish. He would enjoy this.

+++000+++000+++

It was exactly what Hermione had been afraid that Harry's infatuation with the Half-Blood Prince's book would lead to. He'd practically murdered Malfoy. It would have been murder, too, had Snape not gotten to the scene so quickly. Even Harry had to admit that Snape had handled himself brilliantly, done everything right. But then, Malfoy was one of his own.

"I doubt he would have been so fast to help if it'd been me lying there instead of Malfoy," Harry commented bitterly, when he finally got back to the common room that evening. Hermione was interested to note that Ginny had quietly joined their little group at 'Harry's' table in the corner.

"That's completely unfair, Harry, and you know it. He's protected you so many times—" Hermione insisted.

"That git protecting Harry?" Ron was outraged. "Nearly drove him right into You-Know-Who's clutches is more like it, if you ask me."

Hermione shook her head and tried to calm down. It would do no good arguing Snape's merits with Ron.

"This isn't about Snape anyway," Hermione went on, trying to re-direct the conversation. "It's about that book. I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person, and I was right, wasn't I?"

"No, I don't think you were," Harry replied in a mulish way. Hermione didn't miss his nervous glance toward Ginny. He didn't want to look bad in front of her. But he had done something wrong, very wrong! Didn't he see that? At least he'd had the good sense to get rid of the book... but again, only because of Snape.

"Harry," Hermione continued, her voice becoming disturbingly shrill, "how can you still stick up for that book when that spell —"

"Will you stop harping on about the book!" Harry barked. "The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!"

"I don't believe this," said Hermione. "You're actually defending— " But she broke off, because she realized that she was about to parrot back what Ron and Harry had said to her dozens of times about Snape. How many times had it looked like he was the bad guy, when he'd actually been protecting them? Maybe it was the same with the prince? But the book was bad, Hermione could feel it. And Snape had turned out to be a nasty piece of work underneath it all, hadn't he? But no, he was still trying to protect them... Oh, she was getting all mixed up!

"I'm not defending what I did!" Harry blurted out indignantly. "I wish I hadn't done it, and not just because I've got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't've used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can't blame the Prince, he hadn't written, 'Try this out, it's really good' — he was just making notes for himself, wasn't he, not for anyone else. . . ."

Both Ginny and Ron looked like they were in agreement with Harry. Ginny, of all people! Who knew the dangers of trusting a book better than her? But maybe she didn't see the diary as dangerous after all? Maybe she missed Tom Riddle, and regretted instead that Dumbledore had taken the book away... Maybe she wanted it back, just like Harry...

"Are you telling me," Hermione said slowly and with a sinking feeling of dread, "that you're going to go back — ?"

"And get the book?" Harry finished with a challenging tone to his voice. "Yeah, I am. Listen, without the Prince, I'd never have won the Felix Felicis. I'd never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I'd never have —"

"— got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don't deserve," Hermione said, letting her anger and frustration get the better of her.

She was about to push her chair back and leave when Ginny spoke up for the first time.

"Give it a rest, Hermione! By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse. You should be glad Harry had something good up his sleeve!"

Hermione felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her. She looked at the three hostile faces and suddenly panicked: She was doing it again, being nasty to her closest friends because of her own insecurities.

She swallowed her pride and tried to backpedal: "Well, of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed! But you can't call that Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny," she explained, rather reasonably, she thought, all the while trying to control her shaking hands. "Look where it's landed him! And I'd have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match —"

"Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch," snapped Ginny, "you'll only embarrass yourself."

Hermione's face went ashen. No one leapt to her defense, not even Ron, whom she'd been beginning to feel she could count on. Slowly, deliberately, without saying anything, she stood and, without picking up her things, walked over to the girls' stairs, aware of the silent stares of all the Gryffindors following her. As if in a daze, she put one foot in front of the other, until she arrived at the door to her dorm. She hesitated now, just for a moment, wary of meeting up with one of her roommates, but finally pushed the door open and found to her great relief that the room was empty. Lavender and Parvati must be down in the library.

She flopped face-down onto her bed and extinguished the lights. It was very quiet. All of a sudden, something landed next to her with a dampened thud and a soft grunt. Her heart leapt into her throat, but she choked back a scream when she felt a furry head butt against her face.

"Crooks!" she whispered and buried her hands in his long fur so she could scratch his neck. He immediately started purring and heaved himself over onto his side. "Oh, Crooks," she mumbled against his belly. "What am I doing?"

+++000+++000+++

"He's been using my old Potions book!" Snape had to fight against the urge to shatter every jar on the shelf behind Slughorn.

"Why, that could be, Severus, I'm sure I have no idea." The Potions professor blinked owlishly from behind his desk. "I don't see—"

"He has been cheating the entire year!"

"What, young Mr. Potter?"

"No, Bertie Bott! Of course Potter! Did it never strike you as the slightest bit odd that he is suddenly able to brew any potion with a flick of his wrist, when he had proven to be nothing more than adequate in the subject over the past five years of schooling?"

"Why, no, I can't say that— Just adequate, you say? But surely... Have you never sampled his Euphoria Elixir? The most delightful addition of—"

"Peppermint," Snape finished along with Slughorn. The latter appeared startled, while Snape added: "I came up with that, Horace. I came up with it and recorded it in my old Potions textbook, along with numerous other improvements and variations on the standard brewing instructions."

"His mother was, after all, a talented witch in that area herself," Slughorn pointed out. "He might have simply needed... how shall I put it..." Slughorn eyed Snape nervously. "... the right sort of environment in which to flourish, rise to his full potential..."

"What he needs is a kick in the pants and a large helping of humble pie! It's not his mother he takes after, but his father. I refuse to sit by and allow him to take credit for my work!"

"But of course, Severus, but of course," Slughorn assured him, puffing out his mustaches. If you have any proof—"

"Ask to see his Potions book. You will find the front cover inscribed, 'Property of the Half-Blood Prince'. He must have stolen it out of the storeroom, I'm certain I used to keep it in there for reference from time to time."

"Oh..." Slughorn looked crestfallen. "Oh, dear."

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, Severus... I'm afraid that I gave him and Mr. Weasley textbooks from the storeroom at the beginning of the year. They had been unable to purchase books before the term began, and of course I wouldn't have wanted either of them to start off at a disadvantage..."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You utter imbecile—"

"Now see here, I say, that's quite uncalled for!" Slughorn straightened his waistcoat pompously, affronted.

Snape breathed out hard through his nose. "Yes. Yes, you're right," he finally said through narrowed lips. "Potter has succeeded in pulling one over on all of us, yet again. I apologize for my... hasty overreaction. I will take my leave. But before I go, promise me one thing, Horace."

"What is it?" Slughorn asked uncertainly.

"Promise me that you will check both Potter and Weasley's books. If one of them proves to be mine, return it to me."

Slughorn relaxed. "Nothing easier, Severus. Although I'm certain the boys meant no harm. After all, tips from the master..."

Snape harrumphed and swirled his robes around him on his way out.

+++000+++000+++

It was uncanny, Snape marveled, how James Potter's genes were coming to bear in his son, despite the fact that the unfortunate sop had died before he'd had a chance to poison the boy with his overbearing arrogance. Although Snape had come up with _Sectumsempra_, he had never used it on anyone. It had been a desperate, secret obsession of his, plotting out elaborate and bloody fantasies of revenge on Potter and his gang. But only in the extremest of self-defense situations would he ever have dared to actually use it.

That Harry might have found himself in just such a situation in Myrtle's bathroom did not occur to him.

He needed to come up with a singularly appropriate detention, to cover the next several Saturdays. Something that would not only ruin Potter's day, but that would stick in his craw, something that would trouble him for a long, long, time... perhaps even for the rest of his life. Snape knew just the thing.

+++000+++000+++

"Severus, how could this have happened? I thought Draco was under your protection at all times! The Vow..." Narcissa clutched the brandy that Snape had managed to press into her hands. After assuring herself that Draco would live, she had all but beaten down Snape's door and demanded an audience.

"This had nothing to do with Draco's assignment," Snape snapped. He wished there were someone else to deal with this. He was no good at hand-holding. "It was Potter. And I cannot protect your son if he refuses to cooperate with me. He is belligerent, sullen, and secretive. He spends half of his time locked away in a hidden room where not even I have access to him." Snape sounded sulky even to his own ears.

Narcissa gasped. "But what is he doing?"

"Waiting. Hiding. Polishing his wand," Snape said facetiously. "Maybe you can get him to tell you. He doesn't trust me anymore, if he ever did."

"You must have done something, said something," Narcissa said in an accusatory manner. "He has always spoken very highly of you... in the past. Maybe he's seen something here, at Hogwarts, something that indicates you are not on the side you say you are."

Snape studied Narcissa, wondering if Draco had said anything to her... but then what might he have said? It was well-known that Snape was supposed to be working for Dumbledore. And he couldn't possibly have overheard any sensitive conversations he might have had with the Headmaster... could he? Suddenly, Snape wasn't so sure. With both himself and Potter slithering around the castle... was it possible that Draco had been practicing a bit of eavesdropping himself? But if so... he would have denounced Snape immediately to the Dark Lord. He needed crumbs like that desperately. Unless he were holding it back for the moment when his own situation became truly desperate, or he needed the leverage against Snape for some other reason.

"In the past," Snape began slowly, "Draco was required merely to achieve good marks and keep out of trouble, the possible consequences being nothing worse than an evening's detention. This year, he has been placed in a situation where not only his, but your life as well is at stake. I hate to admit it, but if I were in his place" -- _if I had a mother, or anyone, whom I treasured more than my own life_, he silently added— "I wouldn't trust anyone either." He stared hard at Narcissa, until she had to look away. "No one."

"But what about Potter?" Narcissa pressed him. "Why isn't he being expelled for what he's done?"

"Believe me," Snape growled, "if it were up to me, he would have been out on his ear years ago. But as we all know, Dumbledore has a soft spot for trouble-making Gryffindors, especially if they are known as 'the Chosen One'."

"You don't believe that nonsense, do you?" Narcissa asked with disdain bordering on disgust. "The Chosen One.... it sounds positively superstitious."

"I should be careful if I were you, Narcissa," Snape admonished her, glad to be able to make a point against her. "The Dark Lord believes it. His entire plan bases on the premise."

Narcissa flashed Snape a sharp look. "On the contrary, Potter is the only one standing in the way of the Dark Lord's plans. He is certainly not the one predestined to defeat him." Narcissa held Snape's gaze intently, as if she were willing him to contradict her. Or did she hope that he would?

"Of course not," Snape agreed smoothly, now thrown back on the defense. "A matter of semantics. For the likes of Dumbledore, Potter is the one they have pinned all of their flimsy hopes on. Without him as a touchstone, their movement, their resistance, is doomed to failure. As it is in any case, Potter being the weak fool that he is."

Narcissa looked around and put her glass down. "Weak though he may be, he is still dangerous. Especially if he is allowed to roam the halls unchecked, randomly attacking unsuspecting students. You will need to watch Draco more closely."

Snape felt a roiling wave of frustration rise in him. "He is the one who needs to keep a closer watch out. As I have said, he is making an art out of avoiding me, and spending hours in remote corners of the castle. He wiggles his way out of every attempt on my part to supervise him."

"He needs privacy to work on his plan," Narcissa snipped. "He can't have his dorm-mates hanging over his shoulder, distracting him. I am beginning to wonder, like Draco, if you aren't looking for ways to thwart him and put him into disfavor with the Dark Lord. Lucius was always a threat to you. Very convenient that he ended up in Azkaban, isn't it? Why weren't you in the group that went to the Ministry anyway? It couldn't be that you were the one who tipped off the Aurors, could it?"

She didn't even give Snape a chance to answer, but charged onward, a predatory glint in her eye: "It won't work, Severus. When I asked you to make the Vow, I trusted you completely. Or as completely as I trust anyone. Now there are even more questions, but it might turn out to have been the most fortuitous thing I could have done for my son after all. Because you can't use this to get Draco out of the way. If anything should happen to him in the course of carrying out the Dark Lord's bidding, your life is forfeit as well." With a triumphant flourish, she whirled around and exited his chambers.

Snape picked up Narcissa's discarded glass and drained it of the last of the liquor. _Ironically_, he thought as it burned its way down his throat, _it is either way_.

+++000+++000+++


	31. Chapter 31: The Gathering Storm

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_._

**Chapter ****31**

**The Gathering Storm**

Snape watched Potter out of the corner of his eye. The boy hadn't said anything, but Snape could tell by the set of his lips, the way he lingered over certain cards, the tightness of his hand as he copied them, that the task was getting to him. What Snape wouldn't give to get inside Potter's head right now. He wanted – no, needed – to see Potter's shame, his internal picture of his oh-so-great father slashed to ribbons, the way that Black had defaced the Fat Lady's portrait three years ago. Snape had no delusions that Potter would thank him. He knew that he was fanning the fires of Harry's hatred towards him at the same time. It was the only emotion he had ever successfully stirred in anyone.

Every attempt he had ever made at helping and protecting someone had ended in the person despising and reviling him. Potter. Malfoy. . . . Granger. Not that he wanted their adoration. Nor deserved it, if he were honest with himself. He had botched every effort miserably. Potter's Legilimency lessons. 'Advising' Malfoy on his assignment. Keeping Granger from falling victim to one of the more twisted Death Eaters. He was under no illusion that he was any sort of hero.

He had ripped into Potter's mind, rummaged around like a stray pawing through a litter bin, using those few moments to find fodder for his own pathetic vendetta against the man who had stolen Lily from him. Although deep down, he knew that wasn't how it had been; Lily would never have been his, regardless of the presence of any James Potters.

And all he had found was ... not the hoped-for glimpses of Harry lording it over others and kicking weaklings when they were down, but memory after memory of Harry himself being humiliated, scared, intimidated, endangered, and bullied. And where most people would be so embarrassed or disturbed by such occurrences that they would hide those memories deep down, so deep that they hoped even to hide them from themselves, Potter let them float around freely, available for anyone to pluck up and examine. But then, there were so many of that type of memory in his head, they must be to him as daily bread: Nothing special. It was the happy memories, those brief moments of feeling loved and cared for, that Potter guarded like a sultan's harem. When Snape came too close to one of them, Potter was able to react with reflexes as automatic and quick as the lightning bolt whose image was so famously engraved on his forehead.

Not unaware of the many striking similarities between Harry's life thus far and his own through his teen years, Snape nevertheless did not allow himself to develop any sympathy or softheartedness toward the boy. He must maintain his hatred of Potter, if he was to maintain his credibility with the Death Eaters. The slightest sign of softness or weakness would spell his end, and the end of his mission. Potter's fate did not concern him. And so he had continued to brutalize and humiliate the boy, and God help him, he had enjoyed it, at the same time as he hated himself for doing so. To have such power over him, to be able to manipulate his emotions the same way that James Potter had manipulated and humiliated him. It was too good to pass up.

That's not how it had been with Granger, though. He had never enjoyed a moment of it. The only way he had been able to get through it was to drain himself of any emotion or thought, much as he did when practicing Occlumency. In that way, it had not really been him there; but again, he knew that was a lie, a construct, because it had been him there. He was truly disgusting, and deserving of whatever came to him. Dumbledore was wrong, though, thinking that an apology or restitution would somehow change things. How could you apologize for something like that? How could you possible make it better? The only thing to be done was to pretend it had never happened.

When Snape released Harry from that detention, for the first time, he wasn't looking forward to his next chance to humiliate him. He was tired of the entire game. He wanted to see the end of this, one way or the other. For him, it didn't really matter how things turned out, whether Potter or the Dark Lord was the one to survive. He hoped neither one would, if he were honest. But it was all the same.

+++000+++000+++

Hermione hadn't gone to the Quidditch game. She had never really been interested in the sport herself, had only ever gone to the games to support her friends, but now... Now she had no reason to go at all. Harry wouldn't be able to play for the rest of the school year, due to all the detentions that Snape had piled on him, and as for Ron... For all that Hermione had thought things were getting back to normal between herself and Ron, that blow-up about the Potions book and the Sectumsempra incident had made it clear that when it came to a choice between her and Harry, the Chosen One would win hands-down every time. At least it had shown her that Ron wasn't going to coddle her or treat her any differently because of what he knew about the rape. A rather hollow victory.

She had had many moments of self-doubt since that evening. Should she really have come down so hard on Harry? He was obviously feeling terribly guilty about having hurt Malfoy so badly. And Malfoy had attacked him first. That book, though... Without it, Harry wouldn't have come so close to actually killing someone. Without it, Hermione felt, the entire year would have gone much more smoothly. Or maybe it had just been an excuse, a convenient scapegoat for her to focus on, rather than the true source of her discontent. Oh, she simply had to find out where it had come from!

Now, she took advantage of the empty common room to stretch out on the carpet in front of the fire – it was cozy and comforting, even if it was already May – and draw up a plan of further action. As she stared into the low, flickering flames, though, tapping her quill against her cheek, she couldn't think of anything more than what she'd already done. She'd been right through every index in every book that might conceivably mention a potioneer named Prince, from _Who's Who of Wizarding Britain _to the _Ministry Registry of Approved Potions_. Nothing. It was as bad as when she'd been trying to find out about the Horcruxes. Maybe she'd have to resort to Felix Felicis, she thought with amusement. And then from the Horcruxes, she was led to another avenue of exploration: Maybe Slughorn knew who the Half-Blood Prince was. He'd taught Potions at Hogwarts, what... twenty years ago? Thirty? Was that far enough back? And even if he hadn't taught the Prince, he might know who he was. Slughorn knew everyone who was worth knowing. If this Half-Blood Prince had been a Potions whiz, maybe his reputation had gotten around to Sluhorn's ears.

Excited, she was about to run down to see if Slughorn was in his office when she remembered the game. Professor Slughorn was a known sports fiend. He would be up in the stands cheering on one of his proteges. Hermione jotted down 'Prince – Slughorn' on her parchment and rolled over onto her back, letting her eyes wander around the ancient tapestries and age-darkened wooden beams. It was quite the luxury, having the common room all to herself. She wondered if she might be the only one in all of Gryffindor tower at the moment, but the idea quickly creeped her out, and she rolled back over to face the friendly fire, now aware of the emptiness of the large room pressing in on her.

Busy. She had to keep herself busy. There was nothing here. Sir Nick would be around, most likely; he hardly ever left the Tower unless there were a party or a feast. She shivered despite the warmth of the fire and pulled out another piece of parchment from the bag on the floor next to her. She hadn't been writing much about what had happened on Halloween any more; it seemed like she'd written all that she had in her to say. She'd even gotten so complacent as to leave the parchment case with the pages locked up in her trunk in her room, rather than carry it obsessively around with her everywhere she went.

She decided that she would write back to Sandy. The Hufflepuff girl had written her that she'd arranged for the baby to be adopted by a wizarding couple. Hermione felt it was probably the best thing to do, based on what little she knew about Sandy. Still, the other girl would probably go through the rest of her life looking into the faces of every child, and later, adult, of approximately the right age, wondering if that was the one she'd given up. Hermione honestly didn't know what she would have done in Sandy's place, but she was thankful she'd never had to find out.

She hadn't heard back from Lisa since she'd sent her the owl last month; she assumed it had reached her, though. She was a bit relieved that Lisa hadn't written back, to tell the truth. Of all of the other girls who had been raped, Lisa had been the only one whom Hermione had felt that she needed to help, even though she had never been comfortable in that role, and had been glad when Lisa had finally been moved to a place where Hermione couldn't be expected to visit. Looking back on those awkward hospital visits how, she thought that Lisa's impairments might have contributed to Hermione's discomfort in a two-fold manner. First and most obviously, it had been difficult for Lisa to think clearly at times and hold up her end of a normal conversation. But secondly, those very impairments, the direct result of her mistreatment at the hands of the Death Eaters, were a chilling reminder of what might have happened to Hermione herself. Looking at Lisa, she had been looking at her own possible fate.

As Madam Pomfrey had said, Hermione was very lucky.

Hermione had just finished her letter to Sandy and folded it up, ready to take to the owlery, when the Fat Lady's portrait slammed open, and a raucous crowd of red-faced Gryffindors poured in, whooping and chanting, 'Weasley is our King.' A large silver victory cup bobbed up and down, held aloft by many hands.

Hermione quickly scrambled to her feet, stuffing everything she had lying about into her bag before it got trampled by the celebrating mob. She was already on her way to the girls' stairs when Ron caught sight of her and bounded over.

"There you are! Did you see, Hermione? We won!" He gestured wildly behind him at the silver cup.

"That's great, Ron," she said, trying to sound encouraging.

"Did you see that save I made against Willoughby? Pow!" He imitated the motion of whacking a Quaffle away.

Hermione shook her head, both irritated and embarrassed. "No, I didn't go down to the game."

Ron stopped short in his enthusiastic reminiscence. "You what? How could you miss the game? It was only the most important one of the year!"

Hermione shrugged, uncomfortable. "You know I've never really been interested in Quidditch."

"No, I don't." Ron seemed hurt. "You've always been to every game before. No wonder I didn't see you."

"You looked for me?"

"Yeah." Now Ron was the one who seemed embarrassed. "I always... You know, nice to see a friendly face and all."

"Oh. Well, it wouldn't have mattered if I'd been there, right? And I'm sure all of Gryffindor was behind you--"

The sound of the group behind them swelled momentarily, and Ron and Hermione turned to see Harry emerging through the portrait hole.

"Harry!" Instantly, Ron shot away from Hermione, grabbed the victory cup and rushed over to tell Harry about the game. Hermione sighed and was about to start up the dormitory stairs when she saw Ginny dash ahead of Ron, throw her arms around Harry, and kiss him. Passionately.

Hermione felt all hot and cold. How long had this been going on? Had they gotten together without her being aware? But no, judging from the silence that spread across the room like frost on a windowpane, this new development was as big a surprise to everyone else as it was to her. And seemingly to Harry, too: Now that she looked more closely, he was flapping his arms around rather helplessly, as if not knowing what to do with them under Ginny's assault.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (but must only have been ten seconds or so), Ginny let Harry come up for air. He looked around, a dazed look on his face and his glasses slightly askew. Hermione quickly shook herself. She needed a reaction, in case he looked in her direction. If she turned tail and ran up the stairs, as she had been planning to do, he (and others) might take it the wrong way and think she was hurt.

Well, truthfully, she _was_ feeling rather hurt and betrayed. Not because of Harry and Ginny per se, but because this was just one more proof of how excluded she was. Harry had never talked to her about Ginny, even though, as his one female friend (she'd thought), she would have been the perfect sounding board for any thoughts he might have had in that direction. And Ginny: Hermione had had several conversations with her that had touched on the issue of who Ginny liked, and Ginny's relationship with Harry, and every time, Ginny had outright denied any possible attraction to Harry. Had she been lying to Hermione? Trying to mislead her on purpose because she thought of her as a potential rival? Or had these feeling on her part just arisen in the past couple of days, since Harry's attack on Malfoy (and since Hermione had virtually been shut out of the group for criticizing Harry)?

After what had happened with Lavender and Ron, Hermione realized that any reaction other than a positive one to Harry and Ginny would label her as a jealous biddy who couldn't stand to let any other girls close to her friends, and so she forced her face into what she hoped looked like a pleased smile. Luckily, she didn't have to keep it up for long, because within moments, Harry had grabbed Ginny's hand and pulled her back out through the portrait hole with him.

The vacuum that was left was deafening. Within moments, however, the common room roared back to life, this time with undercurrents of discontent swirling and mixing with the euphoria of having won both the game and the House cup.

Hermione stood there, frozen in uncertainty, and might have remained there for a good long time, had not Cormac McLaggen appeared at her elbow.

"That's Potter taken, then," he said with a smirk. "You missed your chance, girlie-o."

Hermione stiffened. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Not that I get what you girls see in him," he continued, narrowing his eyes in the direction Harry and Ginny had gone in. "Scrawny little pipsqueak with glasses. Doesn't even take his position as team captain seriously."

"I think you're being a bit unfair," Hermione said loyally.

Cormac swung his heavy gaze around to Hermione. "Every year, he gets stuck in detention and has to miss at least one game. This year, it was the most important one of the season. Actually a good thing, if you ask me," he commented darkly. "The team does much better without him."

Hermione felt that she should defend Harry, but as it happened, she thought Cormac was probably right.

"Anyway," he went on, changing to a forcedly nonchalant tone, "I had a bit of a plan. Thought I'd give you a chance to get in on it."

"What sort of plan?" Hermione found herself asking, although she had absolutely no interest in being involved in anything that concerned Cormac McLaggen.

"Dead simple, really." He propped one arm against the wall and leaned over Hermione. "Oldest trick in the book. You and me—" He waggled a finger between them. Hermione recoiled instinctively. "You want to make Potter jealous. I can make that happen." He broke into a big, smarmy smile.

"You're sick!" Hermione answered. "I don't want to make Harry jealous! And even if I did, you would be the last person at Hogwarts I'd choose!"

Cormac's smile morphed into an ugly scowl. "I'd be careful if I were you. I've given you more chances than you're worth already."

"I never asked you to! Now if you'll excuse me!" Hermione retreated as quickly as she could; as going up to the dorms would have meant squeezing past Cormac, she chose the opposite direction, and ended up heading toward the common room exit. No longer caring or even thinking about what kind of impression she might be making, or who might be watching her, she pushed the Fat Lady's portrait aside and slipped out.

The cool, quiet hallway was refreshing, and Hermione paused for a moment to lean against the wall and get her bearings.

She was aware that, once again, she was running away from her problems rather than dealing with them, but really, that Cormac McLaggen was an overbearing oaf! When would he get a clue that she was _not_ interested? Hermione was glad that the school year was almost over, as he would be leaving Hogwarts for good.

Although the cause had been unpleasant, she was glad that she was out of Gryffindor tower now; maybe she could sneak back in in a couple of hours, when everyone was either tipsy from the Butterbeer she was certain was even now being distributed, or else too busy snogging their partner of choice to notice her. Hopefully Cormac would have found another willing partner for his 'Make Harry Jealous' scheme by then. But for now, she would find a quiet corner and do some reading. Luckily she still had her bag slung over her shoulder.

As she started down the hall, thinking to find an empty classroom, she realized that that was probably exactly what Harry and Ginny had done just a few minutes ago. She didn't want to end up barging in on them. She'd skip this corridor altogether, maybe even the entire floor, before checking doors, she decided. She tried to walk very quietly and peered around each corner before continuing on, hoping not to interrupt Harry and Ginny in a secret niche somewhere.

She was just peeking around the last corner before the stairs when she felt a tap on her shoulder and let out a shriek that would have done Peeves proud. Instantly, she whipped around, pulling her ever-ready wand out of her sleeve. Heart pounding a mile a minute in her throat, she found herself about to curse a certain red-haired Gryffindor.

"Hermione, wait!" Ron screeched, holding up his hands in surrender. "It's me."

"Ron!" Hermione sagged and grasped at her chest. "What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that!"

Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "I think maybe we should leave them alone," he said softly.

"What? Who?" Hermione slid her wand back into her sleeve, noting as she did that her hands were shaking.

Ron scuffed the ground with one foot. "Harry... and Ginny." He seemed to go a bit green at that last name.

It just now dawned on Hermione what Ron meant: He thought that Hermione had snuck out to spy on Harry and Ginny.

"Oh, no," she protested. "I wasn't... I was trying _not_ to run into them," she explained. "I just needed to get away from the common room. Too loud. Too many people. You know."

Ron nodded, although it was clear that he didn't know. He seemed to consider something, studying her from underneath his fringe. "Do you want to... I don't know, take a walk or something?"

What was he suggesting? Did he want them to find an empty classroom and make out, like Harry and Ginny? Hermione felt a shuddering revulsion just at the thought of such intimacy.

"No!" she answered, a bit too loudly. "You should go back," she urged him. "It's your party. They'll miss you."

"It's all right. Think they mostly just want to get drunk now. And you know... I haven't got anyone... anymore." He smiled sheepishly.

"Oh. Right." Hermione looked around and bit her lip awkwardly. "I was really sorry that you and Lavender broke up."

"What? You told me to!" he reminded her in an accusing tone.

"Only because you were all but broken up already," she pointed out. "You just needed to formalize it."

Ron sighed. "Yeah, I know. It was good. It's good now. I mean, I still think she wants to hex my bits off, but we're better off this way."

"I'm sure you'll find someone else," Hermione offered.

"Yeah. Yeah, I reckon," Ron said, not sounding terribly convinced.

The conversation lulled and Hermione shifted her book bag uncomfortably.

"Well then... I'll just be going..." she ventured.

"I'll go with you," Ron volunteered.

"No, really—"

"Just as far as the library. That is where you're going, isn't it?"

"Oh... yes, the library," Hermione agreed, grateful to have the decision made for her.

They set off in silence. It was unlike Ron to be so quiet, and when Hermione snuck a glance at him, he seemed to be brooding, his mouth set in a slight frown. It occurred to Hermione that Ron might not have wanted to walk with her for her sake, but for his.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?" she asked quietly.

Ron grunted a query.

"Harry and Ginny. It bothers you."

"Naw, not really... I mean... well, it doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Not at all! Harry deserves some happiness after all he's been through. And he's a good guy. He'll be good to Ginny."

"I just keep thinking of Cho..." Ron grumbled. "That didn't go so well, did it?"

"That was competely different, Ron! They hardly knew each other! Ginny and Harry have known each other for years. They have much more in common than Harry and Cho did. And Harry's loads more mature now. Plus, Cho was looking for someone to help her get over Cedric's death. She wasn't ready for a new boyfriend."

"Ginny just broke up with Dean..." Ron pointed out.

"That was weeks ago. And Dean wasn't murdered, they just... drifted apart, I guess you could say. Are you more worried about Harry or about Ginny?"

"Me? I'm not worried about anyone! What gave you that idea? I just... Well, like you said, Harry deserves some happiness. Why shouldn't he date Ginny? Even if she is my baby sister and way too young for ..." Hermione didn't catch the end of what he said, but the gist was clear.

"Ron, I really don't think you have anything to worry about, either way. Ginny's old enough for whatever it is she wants to do. Do you really think that Harry could talk Ginny into anything she didn't want? Ginny Weasley?"

Ron shrugged, but Hermione could tell she was getting to him.

"And do you really think that Ginny's just using Harry to get over Dean, and that she'll cry all over him and then dump him? Do you really think so little of your sister?"

"No, it's not like that," Ron said.

"Well then," Hermione concluded, although she herself still had a niggling feeling of dissatisfaction about the whole thing. Looked at logically, Harry and Ginny getting together made sense. Harry was a sought-after boy; Ginny was a popular girl. Harry had been so involved in death-defying adventures in previous years, he had never had time before to invest in a girlfriend. This year had been quiet for him so far; tracking down Slughorn's memory had never been dangerous or very time-consuming. He'd probably just had more time this year to think about girls. In addition, he'd become serious about things: He had applied himself to his studies, including his extracurricular visits with Dumbledore. He deserved to have someone special in his life.

"How're things going with you?"

Ron's question startled Hermione out of her thoughts as they reached the next landing, where they had to wait for the staircase to swing around to their position. "What? What do you mean?" she asked.

"You know..." He concentrated on the moving stairs and jumped across the gap just before they settled into place. "Everything okay?"

"Of course," she answered automatically. "Why shouldn't—" She pressed her lips together, realizing what he was getting at. The rape. Why did he have to bring that up now? "Yes, everything's fine." She started primly down the stairs beside him.

"Good." He nodded, hands in his pockets, still not looking at her. "I didn't know what to think when you told me. I was pretty shocked. But we've all had crazy things happen to us, haven't we? Harry and the whole resurrecting You-Know—Voldemort," he corrected himself. "--resurrecting Voldemort thing. Me and the brains." He rubbed at his forearm. "Ginny and—You remember."

Hermione wasn't sure how to take this. Her immediate reaction was to be affronted that Ron could compare being raped with having some slimy brains attach their ganglia to you, but she'd learned that her immediate reactions were not always appropriate nor to be trusted. She was also slightly surprised and impressed that Ron had taken the time to think about things so thoroughly. She decided she would hear him out before jumping all over him this time. They had reached the bottom of the staircase, but rather than continuing toward the library, Hermione stopped and sat down on a nearby stone bench.

Ron stood next to her, kicking at the wall. "I don't mean that –" He let out a whoosh of air and started again. "I mean, I can't imagine what happened to you. But I felt like I was going to die when those things started attacking me. It was the scariest thing that ever happened to me, even worse than Aragog's clan being about to have me and Harry for dinner. I mean, yeah," he said with a forced laugh, "the spiders were pretty bad. But they were just spiders, you expect them to eat you, don't you. The brains, though... they were inside me, trying to eat me from the inside. I don't know if that makes sense. It doesn't even make sense to me." He shrugged.

"I think I know what you're saying," Hermione assured him, and she did appreciate it, even if he was going about it in his awkward, Ron way. She patted the bench next to her. "Come here, sit down."

Ron slid onto the seat, being careful to leave a decent space between them.

"This whole thing... This war," Hermione began. "It's been horrible for all of us, in different ways. I guess I never realized how horrible the things were that you've gone through. I don't know if I can ever understand it, just like you'll probably never be able to understand what happened to me. I don't understand it myself, if it makes you feel any better."

Ron snorted a bit, although Hermione hadn't meant for it to be funny. Still, she supposed it was just his way of releasing the tension.

"But whatever it is, it's part of who we are now. That doesn't mean it's good, but I think we just have to accept that and work with what we have. I'm still scared. A lot. I do things that scare me. But I'm trying to get over it. And maybe, I think, that's what Harry and Ginny are trying to do, too."

"So you think they'll be okay?"

"I don't know, Ron. You know I was never one for Divination." She said this with a small smile, and Ron responded in kind. "I don't want either one of them to get hurt, any more than you do. And I'm not jealous, just so you know!"

Ron's smile widened. "Oh, you're not, now?"

Hermione decided to have a bit of fun with Ron. "No," she said with a little sigh as she stood up. "Harry's welcome to Ginny. She's cute, but she's not my type, you know?" Her last glimpse of Ron as she turned to go was of his jaw dropping and his brow furrowing in confusion. Hermione giggled to herself as she walked away.

+++000+++000+++

After their 'heart-to-heart', Hermione felt that things were as much back to normal between herself and Ron as they could get. They didn't necessarily spend more time together (she was too wrapped up in studying for exams and trying to complete extra-credit assignments in an attempt to make up for her laxity during the first half of the school year), but whenever they were together, it didn't feel like walking on eggshells anymore.

She would be lying if she didn't admit to feeling a pang sometimes when she caught Harry and Ginny in a particularly soppy moment. It wasn't a specific jealousy, though; she hadn't lied to Ron about that. It was more a desperate feeling of loss, of something that she knew she would never be able to enjoy. Somehow, it was worse, knowing that Ginny had been through a horrible personal invastion as well, and seeing her so happy. She still tried to see signs that Ginny was faking it, but as far as she could tell, both Ginny and Harry were deliriously happy together. Hermione knew that she would never be happy like that, having someone close to her, touching her. It was just something she would have to come to terms with. There were plenty of people who led long, productive lives as singles. Look at Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore, for example. She'd never heard that either of them had been married, or involved with anyone.

She still had in mind to ask Professor Slughorn about the Half-Blood Prince, but couldn't think of a way to do it that wouldn't give away Harry's cheating (that's still how she thought of it). Although she was glad that he was no longer able to use the book, she didn't want to get him in any more trouble at this point. A detention every Saturday, in addition to having to muddle through his final assignments and exams with nothing more than the same old Potions text that everyone else had, was sufficient.

In order to forestall that scene, she decided to take one more whack at the library. She'd noticed Madam Pince filing a stack of newspapers the other day, and it occurred to her that if this Prince person were at all famous (whether royal or not), there might be some mention of them in the newspaper. Again, not knowing quite what she was looking for, she decided to start with the Daily Prophets from fifty years ago and scan them for information.

One tepid June evening, Hermione was just flipping through the last Prophet in her stack and looking forward to going up to bed, when her finger stopped at a short feature in the Sports section.

_Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! _Hermione felt like jumping up and running, whooping, through the library. "Yesssss," she hissed in a whisper, clenching her fist in victory. She scooted her chair closer to the table and smoothed out the yellowed newspaper lying before her.

'Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team'. There it was in black and white. The unfortunate-looking witch glowered out at her from under heavy brows. Hermione read through the article carefully, hoping there might be something she had missed on the first skim, but there was nothing more than the single line that was relevant:

'"_People may laugh, but Gobstones is a serious sport," insists Eileen Prince, sixth-year Slytherin and Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones team._'

Prince! Hermione could still hardly believe her luck in finding this. Well, quite honestly, luck had nothing to do with it. This was the result of the same dogged determination that had been rewarded with her discovery of the encyclopedia page on the Basilisk back in second year. There had been several false alarms over the past few days, when her tired and bleary eyes had misread 'Price' or 'Pince', but this here was the real McCoy. Or the real Prince, rather.

Hermione glanced at the top of the page. April 12, 1940. That would fit in with her guess at the age of Harry's Potions book. Although she knew this wasn't proof. Not yet. But at least it told her that there had been a Prince at Hogwarts, and in the right time frame. She wondered if there were a way to tell whether this Eileen had been a half-blood witch. The fact that she had been in Slytherin made it less likely, but then Tom Riddle had also been a half-blood Slytherin.

"I'm going to nail your butt yet, Half-Blood Prince," Hermione vowed under her breath. Eileen stared back with her stony gaze, and something about those eyes made Hermione uncomfortable. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that Madam Pince wasn't near, then carefully tore the page out, folded it, and slipped it in between the leaves of one of her textbooks.

+++000+++000+++


	32. Chapter 32: Solstice

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_Author's note: Some dialogue is taken directly from HBP, Chapter 25: The Seer Overheard._

**Chapter 32 - Solstice**

Buoyed by her euphoria at having found the article mentioning Eileen Prince, Hermione hurried back to the common room. She found Ron and Harry sitting by the window, Harry with a particularly moony expression on his face. She had a pretty good feeling as to what (or rather, whom) Harry was daydreaming about, but it was time for business.

"I want to talk to you, Harry," she said as she took the empty seat between the two boys.

Harry's eyes came back into focus and he frowned slightly. "What about?"

"The so-called Half-Blood Prince," she said crisply, pulling out the textbook where she had stowed the ripped-out page from the Prophet.

"Oh, not again," he moaned, rolling his eyes. "Will you please drop it?"

"I'm not dropping it until you've heard me out. Now, I've been trying to find out a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing Dark spells –" she began.

"He didn't make a hobby of it –" Harry interrupted her.

"He, he - who says it's a he?" Hermione asked slyly.

"We've been through this," Harry said in exasperation. "Prince, Hermione, Prince!"

"Right!" said Hermione smartly and whipped out the article. "Look at that! Look at the picture!" She pointed at the sullen-looking black-and-white image.

Harry scowled, but took the page and started to read through it. Ron leaned over to get a look as well.

"So?" Harry asked as he handed the paper back to her.

Did he really need it spelled out for him? "Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry," she enunciated carefully.

Harry and Ron shared a look that made Hermione feel hot under her armpits, and then both burst out laughing. Hermione felt a very strong urge to use that bird charm again. How could they both be so blase, when the answer was so tantalizingly close? She knew this was an important lead, she just knew it.

"No way," Harry managed to get out between his chuckles. "You think she was the Half-Blood ...? Oh, come on." He took off his glasses to wipe his eyes.

"Well, why not?" Hermione countered hotly. "Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname—" She ticked off the possibilities she'd gone through in her head a hundred times already on her fingers. "--a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it?" Harry gave Ron another 'Hermione's-off-on-another-goose-chase' look. "No, listen!" she insisted, stamping her foot under the table. "If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was 'Prince', and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a 'half-blood Prince'!"

"Yeah, very ingenious, Hermione ..." Harry said, as if he were just humoring her.

"But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!"

"Listen, Hermione," Harry said in a rather condescending manner, "I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell." He looked to Ron for confirmation.

Hermione didn't even bother trying to get Ron on her side. The fact that he'd stayed silent throughout the exchange spoke mountains. "The truth is that you don't think a girl would have been clever enough," said Hermione angrily, although she knew that she was just lashing out without thinking things through. She was so frustrated at not being taken seriously.

Harry seemed to take that accusation seriously, however. "How can I have hung round with you for five years and not think girls are clever?" he asked, sobering up. "It's the way he writes. I just know the Prince was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn't got anything to do with it." He pointed at the picture. "Where did you get this, anyway?"

"The library," said Hermione, injured. "There's a whole collection of old Prophets up there." And if Harry had been even half as interested in finding out who the Half-Blood Prince was as he was in tailing Draco Malfoy, he would have known that, she thought to herself.

Seeing that she wasn't going to get any further with this, she left the two boys to return to whatever it was they'd been doing. She realized as she left the common room that she'd overreacted, yet again. She should have waited until she'd found out more about this Eileen Prince person, before going to Harry with the information. Because of course, until she could prove that the Prince (whoever she or he was) was inherently bad, Harry would continue to idolize and defend them and their book.

It was time, she decided firmly, to see Professor Slughorn.

+++000+++000+++

"Why, Miss Granger!" Professor Slughorn greeted her jocularly yet with undisguised surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Do come in." He stood aside to allow Hermione to enter his office. "It's been too long since we've had a meeting of my little group of friends. Busy, busy," he buzzed, ushering her to a hard-backed chair that Hermione could have sworn had been upholstered moments earlier.

"I've come to ask your advice, Professor," Hermione began straightaway. She'd thought quite a bit about how to approach the subject. Knowing how much trouble Harry had had getting his bit of information out of Slughorn, she didn't anticipate that he would be inclined to be immediately forthcoming regarding the Half-Blood Prince, especially if he knew that the Prince had turned out badly.

"Thinking about careers, are we?" Slughorn mused with a wink, taking a seat behind his wide, expensive-looking yet incongruously empty desk. "I'm afraid I can't say I see you brewing for a living, my dear. Oh, you have the brains, no doubt, it's the finesse, that certain _je ne sais quoi_...." He held up his hands in a gesture of futility. "Either you're born with it or not, I'm afraid. Now, your friend Mr. Potter..."

Hermione fought the urge to emit a little scream of frustration. Harry again! She quickly cut Slughorn off, hoping he wouldn't be too affronted at her impertinence. "No, it's nothing like that. It's...." She gave a little sigh that she hoped sounded would be interpreted as embarrassment. "Well, like you say, I don't have the gift for Potions. Not like Harry," she added sweetly, inwardly crossing her fingers.

"Oh now, don't be too hard on yourself," Slughorn said magnanimously. "After all, a talent like Mr. Potter only comes along once in a generation."

"Oh, I know," she said, looking down demurely. "But you see, I do read a lot, and I came across the most fascinating reference to someone who was supposedly a Potions genius. Came up with all sorts of improvements on standard recipes. And I was thinking, he" (Hermione reckoned it was safer to use the masculine pronoun, as it was the default form which any casual observer would use) "might have written a book, and if I could study it, it might help me with my own potion-making." Hermione looked as earnest as she possibly could.

"Mm-hm, mm-hm," went Slughorn, stroking his mustaches pensively. "And you thought I might have such a book in my possession. I can tell you in a moment. Who is this mysterious personage?"

Hermione knew she was coming dangerously close to betraying Harry, but she'd found that when disseminating, it was best to keep as close to the truth as possible. "Now that's the funny part," she said, furrowing her brow in a good approximation of solemn confusion. "There was no name given. Just a nickname, or a title, I'm not sure." She tried to speak as nonchalantly as possible as she said: "He was referred to as, 'the Half-Blood Prince.'" She watched Slughorn closely for a reaction.

At first, his face was thoughtfully blank, then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he gave Hermione an appraising look. "Half-Blood Prince, you say?"

Hermione nodded. "I think that's right. Have you ever heard of him?"

Slughorn placed his plump arms on the desk and leaned forward. "And where did you say you found this reference?"

"I don't remember," she said quickly. "In a book... in the library ... I read so many, you see." She tittered, feeling that things were not going well at all.

"Ah well..." he said, sighing dramatically. "Then I'm afraid it will be quite difficult to help you. Without the context, the author might have meant any number of things..."

"Yes, I thought of that, too," Hermione answered, ready now to lay just about every last card on the table, and blast Harry and his Potions grade. "Prince could be a real royal title. I'm fairly certain he would have been British, it doesn't make sense for him to have been—" She was about to say 'at Hogwarts if he weren't', but caught herself just in time. "—been a foreigner, the book said he'd done all his work in England," she fudged. "So I went through all the records I could find on the British royal family, and there was no mention of any wizards at all, aside from—"

"—the Baron of Whipplemarsh, yes," Slughorn finished with her, "but we can discount him: Neither parent had a magical bone in their body, and he was certainly no Potions genius, bless him."

"Right." Hermione nodded in acknowledgement. "My next theory was that Prince might have been a nickname, either one he made up himself, or one given to him by his friends or colleagues. In that case, of course, there is very little chance of identifying him, since he never published under that moniker. Trust me—" She held up her hand to stop Slughorn from breaking in. "I've been right through every index of every Potions text and journal in the library that was published in the last century, as well as every piece of Ministry legislation regarding Potions."

Slughorn raised his eyebrows. "My, my, Miss Granger. You have been busy. I dare say when you set your mind to something, you don't stop until you've got what you want."

Hermione gave Slughorn an even stare. "That's right. And I want this. I want to know who the Half-Blood Prince is."

Slughorn swallowed hard. Hermione thought she caught a faint sheen of sweat gleaming on his bald forehead.

"That's why I was hoping you might have heard of him by that name," she went on. "I mean, you know absolutely everyone who's anyone, don't you?"

Slughorn hemmed and hawed. "Why, yes, but... no, not necess—What I mean to say is—"

Hermione rescued him. "But there is a third theory. One which I've become quite enamored of."

"Oh, is that... Is that so?" Slughorn asked, looking quite uncertain as to whether he wanted to hear said theory.

"My third theory is... that Prince is, quite simply, his name."

"His name?"

"Yes. His name." Hermione enunciated the word clearly and slowly. "Mr. Prince. Or Healer Prince. Auror Prince. I don't know."

"It sounds like quite the noble theory," Slughorn said.

"But again, the problem is... No Princes."

"Not a one, you say?"

"None. Well, I supposed I must qualify that. There was a Prince who wrote two astrologic treatises in the early eighteen-hundreds."

"Was there now?" Slughorn seemed genuinely interested to hear that. "I never knew. What was his name?"

"Marcellus Prince. But I don't believe that's the person I'm looking for."

"And why not? Dear girl, Astrology and potion-making go hand-in-hand. Prince... Prince..." Slughorn swivelled around in his chair and started scanning the shelves behind him, one pudgy finger running across the spines of the many books.

"The Prince is no Alchemist," Hermione said impatiently. "He's very scientific. Modern. He doesn't go in for piffle like that."

Slughorn turned back to Hermione, his finger still poised in mid-air and eyebrows raised. "You seem to know quite a good deal about this Prince fellow. Perhaps more than you are letting on...?"

Hermione backed down. "No. No, really. That's all I know. I mean, I suppose I don't really know anything." That was actually true, Hermione thought. All she had was a bunch of guesses. "Except..." She decided to show her last card. "I found this. I wonder if you know who this is."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the now somewhat crumpled Daily Prophet page, smoothed it out on Professor Slughorn's desk, and turned it around so that he could see it.

Slughorn looked skeptically at Hermione, as if she were trying to trick him, then gingerly pulled the page closer. After a moment, he sat back with a rather satisfied look, still fingering the paper.

"Eileen Prince? Yes, I knew her."

Hermione's heart leapt. "You actually knew her? Who is she? Whatever became of her?"

"She's not who you're looking for," Slughorn seemed to take pleasure in informing her. "She was at Hogwarts at the same time as I was, a couple of years ahead of me. Came from an old but down-at-the-heels family. Poor marriages did them in."

"But could she have been the Half-Blood Prince?" Hermione persisted.

Slughorn shook his head. "She was no half-blood. Both parents were magical. Mother was a Bleeker, I believe. You may be able to find a wedding announcement in the papers, if it interests you. Those society weddings always got mention, even if they were inauspicious pairings. I would never have put a Bleeker and a Prince together. If anyone had asked me at the time—"

Hermione coughed politely. She wasn't really interested in getting a full rundown of pureblood genealogies.

Slughorn harrumphed and looked slightly put-out, but got back on track. "As to her Potions ability... She did have a certain flair, it's true," he conceded. "She never made a career out of it, though. Didn't do much of anything after leaving school. Made a poor marriage, just like the rest of them.

"And now, Miss Granger..." he said in a wrapping-things-up sort of tone, "I would recommend that you forget about this Half-Blood Prince fellow." He pushed himself away from his desk and stood. "There are no miraculous texts that will suddenly turn you into a dab hand at potions. You are quite an adequate potion-maker. But your true talents lie in other areas." He held out his arm, gesturing for Hermione to stand as he escorted her to the door.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you, truly," Slughorn said when they reached the door. "If I may, however, a word of advice." He gave Hermione an appraising, hard-eyed look. "If you do happen to come across this Half-Blood Prince's text..." Hermione shrank back, having the feeling that Slughorn knew exactly what book she was talking about. "I would recommend most urgently that you return it to its proper place. You may be right about his instinct for potions ... but knowledge without proper instruction is a dangerous thing indeed."

"Then you do know who I'm talking about!" Hermione clutched at the door to prevent Slughorn from closing it yet. "Who is he? Did he turn out badly? Is he dangerous?"

Slughorn looked both ways, up and down the corridor, his eyes wide and his face looking suddenly drawn and grey. "I should say so, Miss Granger. I should say so."

Before she knew quite what had happened, Hermione found herself standing empty-handed before a closed door. Both excited that she'd gotten an admission out of Slughorn and frustrated that he was apparently going to play hard-to-get with her as he had with Harry, she was debating whether to knock on his door again when a sudden chill draught blew through the corridor, causing the magical fires in the sconces along the wall to gutter and hiss. The back of Hermione's neck prickled, and she slid her wand out.

_Probably just Peeves_, she thought to herself, edging away from Slughorn's door, her back to the wall. Somewhere – nearby, it sounded like – a muffled thud sounded. Hermione's heart was in her throat. _Just Peeves, just Peeves, just Peeves_, she whispered to herself, straining her ears to ascertain whether it was safe to continue in the direction she was going. She'd always hated the dungeons. No windows and endless corridors that twisted in unexpected ways. She didn't know her way around this part of the castle nearly as well as she should, considering all the times she, Ron and Harry had spent wandering the halls unsupervised, as well as in the course of doing her prefect duties. Snape's office was still down here, too. He'd kept his old office, from the years he'd taught Potions; Slughorn had taken another room.

Hermione had become complacent about Snape, she realized. After all those months of nothing happening, she'd begun to think that he wasn't a danger. She'd almost forgotten what he'd done; what he'd done to her. Not that she'd actually forgotten it, but the rapist in the Death Eater mask had become separated from Professor Snape in her mind. But that was wrong! He was still a Death Eater. As was Draco Malfoy. Things had been altogether too quiet this year. Voldemort was getting stronger. Even if Hogwarts had been largely spared, the number of attacks reported in the Daily Prophet, a Ministry organ no less, was frightening, to say the least. Maybe Professor Slughorn's nervous send-off had rubbed off on her too hard, but an irrational panic overtook her, and she turned and ran the rest of the way up to the Entrance Hall.

When she got there, she was somewhat comforted to see a couple of students lounging on the main stairs, and the last rays of the setting sun beaming in through the narrow windows either side of the main doors. It was the summer solstice, she realized with a start. The longest day of the year. It must be nearly curfew. She certainly didn't want to be caught out tonight, and not just because she was a prefect. The whole incident downstairs had unsettled her.

She hurried up the stairs, debating whether to tell Harry about her conversation with Slughorn. Given how Harry had reacted to her Eileen Prince discovery, coupled with the fact that Slughorn hadn't really given her anything more to go on, she rather thought not. It would only give him and Ron another reason to laugh at her. She decided not to mention the Half-Blood Prince to Harry again, until she'd found out his (or her) true identity. She wondered whether Harry still had any of that Felix Felicis left, and how she could trick him into letting her have it.

When she entered the common room, she immediately saw that Ron was still sitting at the same table as before, but now he was alone. It looked like he was actually working on homework. Or at least, he was holding a quill and frowning thoughtfully at a piece of parchment. Feeling that it would be rude to go straight up to bed without saying anything to him, she went over.

"What are you still working on?" she asked, tilting her head to see the page in front of him.

"What?" Ron seemed to have been miles away. "Oh, hi, Hermione. What, this?" He looked down at the table, as if surprised to see his homework there. "Nothing..." He frowned. "I mean... Transfiguration. Bollocks. Will you look it over for me?" He looked up at her hopefully.

Hermione sighed. "Sure, Ron." She sat down and spun the paper around so she could read it.

"Dumbledore wanted to see Harry again," Ron mentioned.

"Oh?" Hermione listened with half an ear.

"Strange, isn't it? I mean, he already got the information out of Slughorn that Dumbledore wanted."

"Mm-hm," Hermione murmured, correcting a misspelled word.

"D'you reckon... I mean, you don't think he found the..." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "The you-know-what."

Hermione's ears began tingling. Her eyes snapped up to Ron. "What did you say? Dumbledore wanted to see Harry again?"

"Yeah, sent a kid up with a note for Harry just after you left. Harry said he thought Dumbledore'd found something."

Ron's essay was forgotten. "A Horcrux?" Hermione whispered in reverent horror. A shiver went down her back. She was immediately jealous that Dumbledore hadn't called for all three of them to come. What she wouldn't give to see an actual Horcrux!

Ron scooted his chair in closer to Hermione. "What do you think they'll do with it? I mean... if it's got part of You-Know-Who's soul in it... Bit dangerous to have around the castle, wouldn't you say?"

"They'll destroy it, of course!" Hermione said, irritated both that Ron wouldn't think of that himself and that she wouldn't have the opportunity to see the artifact before it was gone. "Although why Dumbledore wants Harry there... Maybe he wants to show Harry how it's done."

"Or maybe he just reckons Harry deserves to be there when part of You-Know-Who gets the axe, considering what he did to his parents and all."

"Ron, this isn't about revenge," Hermione scolded. "This is about justice and protecting our entire way of life! You can't just go around—"

At that moment, Harry came back in, looking flushed and excited.

"What did Dumbledore want?" Hermione blurted out as soon as Harry came close enough to hear her without shouting. She had a nervous, excited feeling inside, and was disappointed and more than a bit miffed when Harry didn't stop at their table, but continued right past to the boys' stairs.

"Harry, are you okay?" she asked as he dashed past.

"I'm fine," he called over his shoulder before disappearing.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked Ron.

He shrugged. "Search me."

"Well, go up and ask him!" Hermione said, exasperated.

"Maybe he's on his way to the loo, Hermione!" Ron returned in the same tone.

"Oh..." Hermione bit at the inside of her lip, gazing at the stairs. "All right then, let's give him ten minutes. If he doesn't come back down, I say we go up and ask him what Dumbledore wanted. I don't think I could sleep without knowing."

"Fine," Ron agreed, obviously happy not to have to do anything at the moment.

Hermione looked around the common room, feeling antsy. It appeared for all the world like a normal school-day evening, but there was something in the air. Maybe it was just the first whiff of summer.

"Tonight's the summer solstice," she mentioned apropos of nothing in particular, jiggling her knee to let off her excess nervous energy.

"Oh, yeah?" Ron didn't seem particularly interested.

"Midsummer's night, Ron."

"Oh, yeah?" He perked up a bit. "Oh, that's right. Mum always used to let us stay up late so we could help her pick herbs for her home remedies. Something about them being stronger that night."

"That's true, many magical herbs are at their most potent when collected tonight." It was also a night on which many fertility rituals were performed, but Hermione didn't feel comfortable adding that fact to the conversation, for some reason. Too much innuendo. However, just then another chilling thought occurred to her: Would Voldemort try to repeat his attack from Halloween tonight? Taking Muggle-born students for some sick Death Eater pseudo-fertility ritual? She felt very unsafe all of a sudden. That draught down in the dungeons... had that been caused by someone entering the castle through a secret, hidden door? Apropos, where was Draco?

"Ron..." Hermione tried not to sound scared, and kept her voice low. "Do you know where the Map is?"

"Map?"

"Harry's map, you know," she hissed, but Ron didn't need to answer, for at that moment, Harry came bounding back down the stairs.

"I haven't got much time," he said between great gasping breaths. "Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen ..." He swung a chair around and straddled it, leaning his elbows on the backrest and motioning for Ron and Hermione to lean in close.

"Dumbledore reckons he knows where one of..." Harry looked around to make sure no one was listening, but the rest of Gryffindor was used to the three of them huddling together in the corner and whispering together, and the few students who were still up didn't pay them any attention.

"...reckons he knows where one of Voldemort's Horcruxes is."

Hermione squeaked and immediately clapped both hands over her mouth.

Ron swore appreciatively and asked, "Where?"

Harry shook his head. "He didn't tell me. Not here. I'm supposed to go with him tonight."

"And us?" Ron asked eagerly.

Harry shook his head. "He just wants me along... This time," he added quickly, seeing that Ron was about to protest. "Maybe it'll be nothing. But look. You've got to stay here anyway. Don't you see what this means? Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to."

Ron opened his mouth to interrupt, but Harry cut him off.

"No, listen to me!" he said, now getting quite agitated. "I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here –"

Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced the folded-up Map and slipped it into Hermione's hands.

"You've got to watch him and you've got to watch Snape, too," he enjoined her. "Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the DA. Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he's put extra protection in the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's protection is, and how to avoid it - but he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?"

Hermione was having trouble taking all of this in. Dumbledore was leaving the castle all but unprotected... Malfoy was at large... Midsummer's night... She just knew that something was brewing. "Harry –" began Hermione, feeling more uncertain and small than she had all year.

"I haven't got time to argue," Harry snapped abruptly and shoved what looked like a wadded-up bundle of old socks into Ron's hands. "Take this as well."

Ron turned the bundle over and looked at it curiously. "Thanks," he said uncertainly. "Er... Why do I need socks?"

"You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis," Harry explained quickly. "Share it between yourselves, and Ginny, too." Harry paused, finally, and looked Ron steadily in the eye. "Say goodbye to her from me."

Hermione's heart sank when he said that. It sounded like... like he knew he wouldn't be coming back.

"Harry—" she tried to protest, but Harry stood up.

"I'd better go," he said gruffly. "Dumbledore's waiting –"

The enormity of what might happen that night was only now beginning to truly dawn on her. She saw that Ron had pulled a glittering phial of golden potion from the socks. The Felix Felicis. Just a half-hour earlier, she had wished to have some. Now she could take it, go pump Slughorn for information...

"No!" said Hermione, horrified at how skewed her priorities were becoming. "We don't want it! You take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?" She took the potion from Ron and tried to press it into Harry's hand, but he was already taking a step back.

"I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore," he said, sounding more confident than Hermione was. "I want to know you lot are okay."

Embarrassingly, tears arose unbidden in Hermione's eyes and her throat tightened up.

" ... don't look like that, Hermione," Harry said firmly. "I'll see you later." He held Hermione's gaze, and everything that had happened between them over the past six years was right there, a treasure and a curse, and she knew, right then, that she would never know anyone else quite like Harry Potter.

And then he was gone, and Hermione was wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand and trying not to let anyone see.

"Lucky bastard," Ron said, his awe sounding through.

Hermione rounded on him. "Ronald Weasley! Harry could be going to his—" She became aware of people looking up at her raised voice. She stood and grabbed Ron by the wrist. "Not here!" she said fiercely. "Come on!"

She marched Ron over to the boys' stairs and up to his dormitory. He spluttered and protested, but feebly, and didn't try to stop her. Rapping once smartly, she opened his door with no further preamble. Seamus and Dean were sitting on the floor, looking at a magazine. They looked up in surprise, then Seamus took in Hermione holding Ron's hand and a sly smile spread across his face.

"Looking for some privacy, Weasley?"

"No, we're—It's not like that!" Ron stuttered, snatching his hand away from Hermione.

"Oh, grow up," Hermione said to his roommates in disgust. "It just so happens we do need to talk in private. But not like you think. So, do you mind...?"

"Sure, sure," Seamus said easily as he and Dean stood up. "How long do you think you'll need?" He turned to Dean. "Ten minutes?"

Dean shook his head, embarrassed. "Come on, Seamus." He headed for the door. "Just don't take all night, I have a Muggle Studies test in the morning."

"Thanks, guys," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Hermione stood in the doorway until she was sure they were really going downstairs, then closed and locked the door.

"What's all this about?" Ron asked with some irritation.

But Hermione had spread the Map out on a desk and activated it. Malfoy, Malfoy... where was he? She was so nervous, her hands were jittery and she couldn't concentrate on the host of dots and names covering the surface of the Map.

Ron peered over her shoulder. "What are we looking for? ... Look! There goes Harry!" His arm darted out and pinpointed one small spot in the Entrance Hall. "And there's Dumbledore with him..."

They watched as the two specks passed through the doors and off the Map. "Where do you reckon they're going?" Ron asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I've no idea. But Ron, don't you realize what this means?"

"Yeah, this might be the last time we hear of old You-Know-Who!"

"No! Ron! Don't you remember the prophecy? 'None can live while the other survives'! Think of the other two Horcruxes that we know of: The diary and the ring. Both of them nearly killed someone. The things are dangerous."

"This is Dumbledore we're talking about, Hermione," Ron said confidently. "He knows what he's doing. He won't let anything happen."

Hermione pursed her lips. They knew that Dumbledore had been weakened once already when he had destroyed the ring. There was no telling what might happen a second time. Simply the fact that he was taking Harry along this time indicated to her that he thought he might not be able to handle this one on his own. As Hermione fretted, her eye continued wandering the Map for a sign of Malfoy.

"Do you see Malfoy on here anywhere?" she asked Ron.

"Oh yeah, Harry wanted us to keep an eye on him..." Ron leaned over to examine the Map more closely. "Nope, I can't see him anywhere..." he concluded after a good minute of searching.

Hermione's stomach dropped. "The Room of Requirement," she whispered, running her finger over the parchment until she came to the blank stretch of seventh-floor corridor where the Room was located. The point from which she was almost certain he was leaving the castle for Death Eater meetings. And the point through which, conversely, other Death Eaters might gain access to the castle.

"Could be," Ron agreed. He stood up straight and stretched. "Well, looks like we're going to be in for a long night. Maybe I should go down to the kitchen and pick up some food."

"No, Ron! We have to do something.... I can't explain it, but I know that something's going to happen tonight. With Dumbledore out of the castle, and it being Midsummer's night..."

"What do you want to do?"

"Do you have your D.A. Galleon?"

Twenty minutes later, Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny, and Luna were crowded into the sixth-year Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Luna was the only one who had actually responded to the D.A. coin signal. She'd knocked on the Fat Lady's frame until Dean had let her in. Meanwhile, Hermione had gone to get Ginny (based on Harry's express wish that she be informed of what was going on).

Seamus and Dean were skeptical of giving up a night of sleep, especially in light of the test the next day, but agreed to 'keep an eye on things in Gryffindor'.

The rest of them were enthusiastic about helping out with the actual tasks that Harry had set them: Watching Malfoy and Snape. Hermione didn't honestly know which she'd rather do. While she probably would have a better chance against Malfoy than Snape, should it come down to a fight, she considered that Malfoy was the more unpredictable one, and the only one of the two who had ever been involved in attacks within the castle. And, if there was going to be another Death Eater infiltration through the Room of Requirement, as one of their main targets, she wanted to be as far away from their point of entry as possible. She felt more than a bit dirty and ashamed for thinking that way, not Gryffindor-ish at all, but there it was. And it was true that any of the others, being purebloods, would more likely than not simply be shoved aside or even ignored by any Death Eater intruders seeking Muggleborn students. Plus, she hardly thought that any Death Eaters would be stupid enough to walk straight into a group of students hanging out in the hall. They'd want to sneak in and out without being detected, as they had on Halloween. No, the others wouldn't be in any danger.

As for Snape, she wanted to believe that he was only a Death Eater outside of the castle, and that within, he would never actually come out and attack her or anyone else. She wanted to believe this. All of his actions up to this point supported this theory. Probably nothing would happen tonight, anyway, other than Malfoy and Snape leaving the castle for a meeting. All they had to do was keep tabs on them for Harry.

However, everyone was in agreement that they couldn't just sit up in the boys' room and watch the Map. Ron and Ginny both felt that Malfoy was their real priority, and wanted to go stand in the hallway outside of the Room of Requirement, hoping to catch Malfoy at whatever it was he was doing. Hermione had to agree that this would make the most sense. And so it happened that she and Luna ended up making their way down to the lower levels of the castle, where the Map had shown Snape's dot in his office.

Even without the Invisibility Cloak, it was no problem for her and Luna to make it out of the tower and down the stairs without incident. It was past curfew now, and the corridors were eerily empty. Of course, the Gryffindor prefects (herself and Ron) weren't making any rounds tonight, and Luna assured Hermione that Terry and Mandy were involved in an all-night cramming session up in Ravenclaw tower. So much for heightened security, Hermione thought grimly, although it served her own purposes well.

Hermione didn't really have much in common with Luna; she'd always had difficulty with her rather unorthodox and, from Hermione's point of view, frankly, illogical way of looking at things. They couldn't really talk once they'd gotten themselves settled in the dank passage outside of Snape's office, anyway, as they didn't want to draw attention to themselves. Aside from Snape possibly hearing them through the door, Peeves and Mrs Norris with Filch could be skulking about.

As silence settled over the dungeons, Hermione finally had time to try and make sense of all that had transpired over the past couple of hours. Point one: It looked like Dumbledore had located one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. How many were there supposed to be? Seven? In the memory that Harry had coaxed out of Professor Slughorn, the student Tom Riddle had asked whether it would be possible to make seven Horcruxes. But that didn't necessarily mean that he had ended up making seven, once he re-christened himself Lord Voldemort. In fact, Hermione wondered now if there were something else in that memory that Dumbledore had really been after. Something like a clue to the location or type of one of the remaining Horcruxes. Dumbledore had already known that Voldemort had made more than one, since the diary and ring had both been destroyed. Maybe there were only, say, three, after all. Three was an attractive magical number. Although a lot could be said for seven as well. Or nine. Well, she would find out tomorrow, when Harry came back, whether Slughorn had given them any clues. And Harry would come back. He just had to. Hermione refused to let herself even entertain any other possibilities.

Moving on to point two, then: Professor Slughorn knew who the Half-Blood Prince was. That meant that he (or she) had either used that name as a student here at Hogwarts, or had become famous under that name afterwards. Since Hermione had found no trace of any famous Half-Blood Princes, it stood to reason that the person in question had used the name during their Hogwarts years. They might have been a student at the same time as Professor Slughorn, or they might have been one of his students after he started teaching. Maybe... Yes, it would all make sense then.... Why couldn't Tom Riddle have been the Half-Blood Prince? He had probably been at Hogwarts at about the same time as Professor Slughorn. He was known to make up titles of nobility for himself. And he had been a half-blood. And (Hermione remembered Profesor Slughorn's last words to her) he had gone bad. Very, very bad.

Hermione got that familiar Eureka feeling of all the tumblers shifting into place. Harry was using Lord Voldemort's old Potions book. Hermione was so excited, she almost burst out and told Luna the entire story, but she was able to restrain herself, biting her lip and clasping her hands tightly in her lap. Just wait! Just wait until Harry and Dumbledore got back. This was important, too important to keep it from the Headmaster. It might even be important for tracking down any further Horcruxes. Who knew what clues were hidden in the textbook's pages?

+++000+++000+++

It was late, and Snape wasn't making any progress. He was at the end of his Latin, but he simply couldn't give up. He'd used to be so good at coming up with new variations on potions. It had been like paths simply opened up before him in his mind. Now, he couldn't see a foot in front of him, metaphorically speaking. He'd experimented around with every possible combination he could think of, and there was nothing that would help Dumbledore any more.

And now the Headmaster had taken off with Potter. Did he think he was invincible? Snape knew how physicaly weak the old wizard had become, and it was folly, absolute folly, for him to be taking off like this. What would Potter do if the curse broke through and attacked his heart again? Cast a Patronus at it? Snape sneered.

He flumped open the large tome at his elbow once more, hoping for inspiration. He wasn't going to let Dumbledore die, if it was the last thing he did! He'd caused so much pain and death, this was one thing he was going to do right in his life.

As he read once more the section on crystalline derivatives, he reached for a fresh piece of parchment to jot something down, but found that he'd used the last one. Cursing silently, he shoved things aside and pulled at piles, looking for some unused scrap.

One half-folded piece was sticking out its corner at him, but even as he tugged it out, it was with a sense of foreboding; he thought he knew what this was. Why had he kept it? The better question was, why had he even written it in the first place? It turned out Dumbledore had been wrong about her needing anything from him. She was over it, had obviously put it out of her mind. He hadn't had a spot of trouble from her since ... He racked his memory. Hogsmeade, most likely. That first Apparation lesson, back in April, and even that hadn't had anything to do with him, had been simply Gryffindor rule-flaunting. No, she was obviously not incapacitated by what had— What he had done to her. It was better forgotten. He'd all but forgotten it already, and – but that was a lie, he hadn't forgotten; how could he forget? All the awful things he'd done, all supposedly in the name of the Cause. It would all be over soon. Soon.

He tossed the parchment onto the floor. It gaped at him, half-open, a trick of the light making the writing look like dried blood. His mouth twisted down, and he aimed his wand.

"Severus!" His door banged open and Flitwick practically fell into the room. "Death Eaters! In the castle!"

+++000+++000+++


	33. Chapter 33: The End

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

_._

**Chapter 33 **

**The End**

He had remained oddly calm. Oh, he always seemed calm, to others, but usually only as a result of great effort on his part. Tonight had been different. His mind had been perfectly still, as flat and unperturbed as the surface of the Black Lake in the dead of winter. He'd known immediately what to do. There had been no moment of panic, no weighing of possibilities. Flitwick down, and then – a brief moment of surprise, yes, at finding his way barred by Granger, her eyes wide and doe-like, staring at her Charms professor laid out on the floor, and Lovegood, who looked, unnervingly, directly into his eyes and asked politely if she could help. He congratulated himself on having avoided disabling either of them. Although it was probably either luck or shock that had made Granger follow his order to stay there and take care of Flitwick.

Yaxley had met him on the stairs, told him where Draco was. He found himself merely annoyed by the sight of adult Death Eaters duelling with the children of Hogwarts; they were in his way. He had to get to the tower. He had looked neither left nor right, not registered the shouts and sounds of battle, the cracks and shrieks, the smells of pulverized rock and burnt hair. He had felt as if he were walking across the bottom of the Black Lake, his body numb and his movements slow, his field of vision narrowed and clouded at the edges, the events outside his immediate vicinity fading into obscurity. It had taken forever and no time at all for him to reach the Astronomy Tower.

He had barely felt the thrum of the magical barrier at the base of the stairs buzzing across his skin, had taken the steps two at a time, anxious—No, that was wrong, he hadn't been anxious at all. Purposeful.

Dumbledore was finished. He'd seen it immediately, the way he was sagging against the wall, his skin grey and nearly transluscent. He'd smelled the sharp tang of Draco's fear-sweat and felt slight relief that, at least, he'd gotten there in time. He hadn't even noticed that the others were there, although the three of them, the Carrows and Greyback, had preened later before the Dark Lord. He'd had eyes only for Dumbleore, his employer, his mentor, his patron, his patient. His target.

"Severus, please..."

And suddenly, finally, after all the months – years – of waiting, planning, speculating, hoping, denying, pretending – this was the moment he had lived for. The zenith and nadir of his existence. His carefully constructed barriers, both strong and fragile as porcelain, were about to be tested to their utmost. Capable both of withstanding the fires of hell and of being shattered by a word.

The curse had unfurled out of him like a gushing of oil, burning and anointing, cleansing and destroying.

And then, for an eternal moment, there had been silence. Dumbledore going over the parapet, his gray travelling cloak billowing up around him, his features slack, his mouth hanging slightly open... Snape knew that he would never rid himself of that image.

He had expected to feel drained then, but he found quite the opposite: He was keyed up like never before, elated and devastated at the same time. He was hardly aware of the people around him – Death Eaters, students, Aurors. Somehow he was outside, and Potter was there, too; the first reality check. It hadn't all ended. There was still more: loose ends, or were they strands only now beginning to unravel?

It was only later, when he was sitting alone and in the dark at the Malfoys', that the enormity of what had happened began to sink in, and he knew that Dumbledore had been right. All that drivel about love and purpose. He had felt it, the compassion and the desire to let Dumbledore finally rest, to give him the humane end he had requested. Oh, he'd felt the anger at the injustice of it all as well, and the self-loathing and bitterness – that was always with him – and the fury at everyone else's incompetence, which made it necessary for so many tasks to fall to him. Those were there as well. But he knew, as he drew back his arm to cast the spell, that they were not the source of his power at that moment. Was it love? He didn't know. But whatever it was, it was what had been giving him the strength to keep going through this last terrible year, what had stopped him from simply dropping where he was and refusing to go on. It was the force behind his continued search for a cure for Dumbledore's curse; it was the power behind his Patronus; it was the willpower that enabled him to withstand assault after assault on his mind, body, and spirit.

And the hole in his heart opened up and he fell in, and he found tears and snot pouring down his face, and it wasn't all right, not at all. He wasn't dead yet. Why wasn't he dead? He had done what was required of him. Now where was his reward?

+++000+++000+++

Hermione hadn't suspected that anything was wrong. When Flitwick had come hurtling down the corridor and blasted open Snape's door, Hermione had taken it all in stride. Oh, she'd been anxious, yes; this was the expected Death Eater attack, after all. It was Midsummer's Night. She'd known this was coming. And then Snape had come out of his office, looking strangely focused, and told her and Luna to take Flitwick up to the infirmary, and she'd been reassured. Because he was going to take care of things now. She'd honestly, crazily, believed that he was going, somehow, to stop the intruders. That she would be safer down in his office. Because if he was in on their plan to capture Muggle-borns, why wouldn't he have taken her then? Luna couldn't have done anything. She'd thought that he was trying to protect her, without making it obvious. And she had been relieved, grateful even, that her assessment of him had been right. But they hadn't been after Muggle-borns that night. They'd been after Dumbledore. And she had dumbly played right into their hands. If she'd had any inkling... What? Would she have cursed him? Stunned him? Did she have it in her? She would probably have ended up on the floor, like Flitwick. _'...he probably would have killed you and Luna...'_ Harry's words echoed in her head over and over. Would he have? If they'd tried to stop him?

She'd seen the half-sheet on the floor by Flitwick's head, wouldn't have given it a second glance under the circumstances, except that the first line had caught her eye: Her name. She'd pocketed it quickly, hoping that Luna wouldn't notice. And then she'd forgotten about it in all the excitement that followed.

Hermione had barely been able to breathe when Harry broke the news to them. The room had swayed, and she'd found herself leaning against Ginny. Then there had been a flurry of Weasleys, and somehow she'd been able to slip out, only there wasn't anywhere for her to go. Although Harry had said that Snape and Malfoy had run off, and there were Aurors combing every corner of the castle, she couldn't bring herself to go back up to Gryffindor Tower. And so she had slumped down there, in the hall outside the infirmary, and put her head down on her knees, and tried not to think of anything.

+++000+++000+++

"Miss Granger." The voice had to repeat itself a couple of times before she became fully aware of it. She opened her eyes slowly. Her neck hurt, and her legs were numb.

"Miss Granger." It was Professor McGonagall. She was bending over, looking at Hermione with kind concern. "Are you all right? Can you stand?"

It was morning. The window at the end of the corridor showed a pale pink sky.

"I'm..." Hermione's voice cracked with dryness. "Yes," she said, thickly, not even certain what 'all right' meant.

She staggered to her feet, leaning against the wall and shaking out her feet to get the blood circulating again.

"Dear, why didn't you go back up to bed?" McGonagall asked kindly, hovering, not wanting to be overbearing, or perhaps just not wanting to be distracted too thoroughly from her own errand. "Did Madam Pomfrey check you out?"

"I'm... fine," Hermione said vaguely. The awfulness of last night was lurking just beyond her conscious thought. She was struggling valiantly to keep it at bay. "I didn't... I just wanted to rest for a moment. I must have fallen asleep."

"You can go on up now, if you like. There will be no classes today. Exams have been cancelled as well. Given the circumstances."

"Yes, of course, the circumstances," Hermione echoed hollowly. She pushed herself away from the wall. She felt slightly dizzy, and the beginnings of a headache lurked just under the surface.

"Are you certain you're all right, dear?" McGonagall asked again, a frown creasing her face. "Why don't we just have Madam Pomfrey—" She curved her arm around, trying to herd Hermione back toward the infirmary.

"I'm fine!" Hermione insisted. She didn't want anyone poking at her. "Really, just a little stiff..." she added in a calmer tone, and tried to soften it even further with a strained smile. "I'll be fine. I don't want to trouble Madam Pomfrey. She has enough to deal with, with Bill and the others."

"Yes, the poor Weasleys," McGonagall commiserated. "I don't think any of them will sleep soundly until the next full moon has passed. Remus thinks he should be fine. Still..." She tutted. "Well, if you're sure you're all right, I'll just send you off to Gryffindor." She seemed relieved not to have to deal with anything more. "It's perfectly safe, there are Aurors standing guard at every entrance."

Hermione was not reassured, but her disquiet had nothing to do with the possibility that there might still be Death Eaters in the castle. She knew that Malfoy and Snape ... Snape. The note. A ball of dread and nerves gathered in her stomach. She just barely stopped herself from reaching into her pocket to see if it was still there. She couldn't imagine what it might say... probably nothing important, just a list of grades, notations of assignments turned in. She mumbled something about wanting to go up to bed, and Professor McGonagall seemed pleased to let her go.

Her heart beating in her throat, she stumbled back through the castle. The corridors were eerily empty, for all that it was light; she wasn't used to being out at dawn. She couldn't go back up to Gryffindor. She didn't want to have to talk to Lavender and Parvati; to say nothing of what the scene might be like if Harry or Ron were down in the common room. Certainly, she knew she couldn't avoid everyone forever, but she had to take a look at this paper first, satisfy her curiosity, and possibly put Snape out of her mind and out of her life forever. Because now he couldn't come back. He had murdered Dumbledore. Even if he got away without being sent to Azkaban... He would never be allowed to return to Hogwarts.

She ducked into the next classroom and cast a simple locking charm on the door, just in case. She sat down at the nearest desk and braced both hands against it, lowering her head to try and get her bearings first.

Snape had killed the Headmaster. It still didn't want to go into her head, didn't seem real. But Harry said he'd seen it, and Professor Dumbledore was really dead. That Snape would be capable of such a thing... But then why not? She'd deluded herself about him completely, had thought she'd understood him. She'd even felt a certain pity, bordering on empathy. It was sick. After what he'd done to her. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the parchment, flattening it out with the blank side up.

Harry had said that Snape had shouted, 'It's over,' on his way out, and the other Death Eaters had broken off fighting and retreated after him. It seemed that the others had only been there to hold the way clear for Snape to get to Dumbledore. They really hadn't been interested in any of the children, Muggle-born or not. But that didn't make sense... if Snape had wanted to kill Dumbledore, he could have done so at any time. Couldn't he? He didn't need an elaborate contingent of Death Eaters to keep the other teachers away.

But last night had been different than any other night. Because Harry and Professor Dumbledore had left the castle. Harry had said that Dumbledore hadn't fought back at all. He'd been so weak. Ill. From the Horcrux? Had they found one? Destroyed it? Had it made Dumbledore even weaker than he had been earlier? (His blackened hand had not escaped Hermione's notice.) And if Voldemort or his Death Eaters knew of it, if he knew that Dumbledore's defenses had been decimated by the Horcrux, then he could have let Snape know, told him that now was the best time to strike. Now that would make sense. And it would mean that whatever plan Dumbledore had had in mind, whatever it was that Hermione and the other girls had kept quiet for, to allow Snape and Malfoy to remain at Hogwarts, had failed. Because it would mean that Snape had never been working for Dumbleore at all. He had been Voldemort's man on the inside all along, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Hermione thought that she should feel sick and betrayed at that realization, but she didn't. She just felt numb. It was like receiving a confirmation of something that she had known all along, but refused to admit. Snape had tricked all of them. Including Dumbledore.

She took a deep breath, and turned the parchment over.

_Miss Granger_

_It was a mistake. When this is all over, you will see that I made many of them. A large number of them were made in the service of righting a wrong done long ago. It doesn't matter. I don't even know why I'm writing this. The Headmaster has said something about apologies and restitution. I have always done what was required of me. An apology is meaningless, however, as if I were in the same situation again, I would do the same thing. I don't expect you to understand, nor to forgive. _

_You wrote about loss of control under the Imperius. Imagine if your entire life were like that. If your every move was planned and orchestrated by someone else, if not only your body but your mind and all your resources existed merely to serve the whims of another master. Imagine if you had to do things, say things, that were so anathema to you that you would rather die than do them, and yet if you didn't, you would put not only your own life in danger, but exactly those persons and ideals that you had sworn to protect. But I digress. _

_And so one error has compounded another. I hope you can appreciate the fact that I no longer keep track. Suffice it to say that whatever you think of me, is true. You know nothing about me, and yet you know everything there is to know._

_I suppose all that remains to be said is: Rest assured, I will get my just desserts. _

_S. Snape_

+++000+++000+++

Dinner at the Malfoy house was an odd affair. Their guest had excused himself, leaving Narcissa and Draco alone to entertain the Lestranges. Draco sat uneasily at the head of the ridiculously long table. He had not uttered a single word all evening. Narcissa was likewise withdrawn, but Bellatrix was wildly animated, chattering on about all the plans 'they' had, how many possibilities were open to them now that the linchpin of the Order was gone.

"And Draco..." She leered over at her nephew. "You'll have to do better next time. You can't let Snape just waltz in and take all the glory for himself again." She fluttered her hands in the air.

Narcissa looked at her sister, startled. "Isn't it over? Draco has done what was asked of him. He's proven his loyalty to the cause."

"No, Cissy." Bellatrix's lips curved up in a frightening smile. "This is just the beginning."

+++000+++000+++

_Author's note: There will be one more chapter_.


	34. Chapter 34: After the End

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Chapter 34**

**- After the End - **

He was dead.

She was standing next to his white and bloodless corpse in the Great Hall. They'd put him off by himself, not with the students and staff who had fallen; but not in the pile of Death Eaters, either. Lying on his back like that, his hair cleared off his face, highlighted how thin he was. Or maybe how thin he'd become, during that year. She hadn't actually seen him since that night, down in the dungeons, with Flitwick. His features were pinched. Harrowed. He looked old, at least as old as Voldemort. He was only thirty-eight.

It should mean that it was over. The curtain closed.

Justice served.

Why didn't she feel anything, then?

"Snape was on our side all along," Harry said quietly. She turned and stared at him. She hadn't heard him approaching. He knelt down beside the body. "I watched his memories. The ones he gave me. Him as a kid. Him and my mum. Him and Dumbledore."

Hermione got a creepy feeling in her stomach. She heard Harry as if from very far away.

"Did you know he was in love with my mum?" he asked softly.

The question didn't make sense to Hermione, so she didn't answer it. She kept staring at Snape's face, at his twisted, pained expression. Was he in Hell?

"Dumbledore arranged for him to kill him, too. Snape didn't want to do it, but Dumbledore insisted." He turned and looked up at her from where he was kneeling. "I think we were all wrong about him."

"What do you mean?" Hermione whispered, still unable to wrench her eyes away from Snape. What were they wrong about now? She'd thought so many times she was wrong about him. And then she'd tried for a long time not to think about him at all. His betrayal of Dumbledore had been the last blow that smashed once and for all any image of him that she'd tried to hold together with suppositions and hope. All through that last year at Hogwarts, in the aftermath of the rape, she'd tried to figure out where Snape stood, what his role was. It had been important to her. If he was working with Dumbledore, then the rape was a sacrifice on her part. For the good of the cause. If he wasn't, then he was a monster, every bit as sick and evil as Voldemort. So of course she'd twisted things around to make them make sense. But maybe he was a monster either way.

"Hermione?" It was Ron's voice. Hermione turned to see him and Ginny standing behind her. Ron's eyes were big, with dark shadows around them. Ginny's face was blotchy and puffed up from crying. She went to Harry as he stood up, and they put their hands around each other's waists and hugged.

"What are you doing over here?" Ron asked, moving closer to Hermione. He stopped short when he saw Snape's body. His eyes rose slowly to meet Hermione's. She felt as if she'd been caught in flagrante delicto.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the door. "Mum and Dad are going home."

Ginny and Harry moved silently past them, but Hermione felt as if she were rooted to the spot.

"Hermione?" Ron prompted.

"I..." She fidgeted. She wanted Ron to go away, wanted to be alone... with Snape? When she thought about it, it didn't make any sense. She should leave. Yes. Go with the Weasleys. Snape was dead. It was all over.

She took one last, long look at the body, then allowed Ron to lead her out of the Great Hall.

+++000+++000+++

The memorial service was held that weekend, at the shore of the lake, just like Dumbledore's had been. The weather wasn't as fine, however: it was cloudy, and there was a stiff breeze that made the House banners billow and snap on the poles they were mounted on at the bottom of the meadow.

It seemed like the entire British wizarding community had turned out. The crowd stretched back as far as the castle. As family members of one of the deceased, the Weasleys had seats in the front section. Hermione and Harry sat with them.

The coffins were lined up in front of the seats, all fifty-four of them. Hermione counted them several times during the course of the endless speeches and dedications. Each one was draped with a silk banner bearing the Hogwarts crest.

Snape's wasn't there.

Hermione knew that it wouldn't be. Harry had told her and the Weasleys about the discussions between himself, McGonagall and the Hogwarts governors. Even though they believed what Snape's memories showed, they had decided it would be too politically tricky to include him in the memorial service for Hogwarts' fallen. There were too many students who had suffered under his Headmastership. However, they agreed to allow him to be buried quietly in the Headmasters' plot, alongside Dumbledore, Phineas Nigellus Black, and Armando Dippet.

Harry was quite upset about the decision not to include him at the memorial. He'd become very protective of his former professor, now that he knew about his feelings for Lily. Hermione tried to stay out of it. She didn't know how she felt about it all. Yes, she'd sat down and listened to Harry one night, heard him tell about Snape's memories. But did it make a difference that Snape apparently had a capacity for love? Did that erase, or even balance, all the terrible things he'd done?

In the end, of course, he had given his life for Hogwarts, just as much as, and perhaps even more so than, any of the others whose bodies now lay before them, waiting to be returned to the earth. Because he hadn't just made a sacrifice of a moment, or an hour, but of an entire life. Was that noble? Or rather pathetic?

The sun was low in the sky by the time they were done. Everyone stood as the coffins of those whose families had taken the Governors up on their offer of a burial on Hogwarts' grounds, and of those who had no families left, were solemnly sunk into the ground. The remaining ones would be claimed by their relatives for burial in family plots. The Weasleys had opted for Fred to remain at Hogwarts.

As the crowd started to disperse, Hermione hung back. She mumbled something about needing a moment, and told the Weasleys and Harry she'd catch up with them. She waited until they were out of sight, then sidled over to the Headmasters' plot. It had been cordoned off, to keep the crowds from accidentally trampling over the graves. Hermione slipped under the rope and started searching the monuments and markers in the fading light.

There was Dumbledore's white marble tomb, glowing brilliantly white against the coming gloom. Beyond it, a weather-worn angel towered over the grave of a headmistress from the sixteen-hundreds. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the layout. The grave she was looking for could be anywhere. It suddenly occurred to her that they might not even have gotten around to putting up a marker yet. An urgency overcame her. She couldn't take too long: she didn't want anyone to come looking for her. Explanations would be awkward.

She decided it was better to go about things systematically, rather than stumble blindly around the graves. She headed for the nearest corner, thinking to walk the rows one by one. Her shoes clacked on what she took at first to be a border stone, marking the edge of the plot, but as she stepped off it to start down the row, she realized there was writing on it. She bent over:

_Severus Snape_

_1960-1998_

_Hogwarts Headmaster 1997-1998_

That was it. A small, grey rectangle flush with the lawn. If the grass grew a bit longer, it would be obscured nearly completely.

Her heart was thudding wildly against her chest. Somehow, seeing the words chiseled in stone like that made it more real than seeing his lifeless body. He was really gone. Her first thought, oddly, was not that he would never hurt her, or anyone else, again. It was that his life had been wasted. That he'd never have a chance to live, freed from a crusade. To show what he truly was, rather than what someone else needed him to be.

She'd decided a while ago that what he'd done to her, hadn't come from him. He'd told her that he could never be forced to do anything, that he would do the same thing again, given the same situation. But she knew now, that was because he'd never known that he had a choice.

_It is our choices that show what we truly are._ Dumbledore told Harry that, back in second year, when Harry was afraid he was too much like Voldemort. If that was true, though, Snape had never been able to show what he truly was. And wasn't that what they were here for, on Earth? To discover who they were?

She didn't know exactly what she believed about the afterlife. She'd learned about Heaven from sporadic visits to church, growing up. Other faiths taught the doctrine of reincarnation. Harry said you went to a railway station.

Whatever it was, if there was something, she was pretty sure that most religions agreed that you fared the best if you were unburdened by guilt, sin, bad karma, or whatever you wanted to call it. She also knew that spirits tended to linger as ghosts, if they had unfinished business. She certainly didn't want to end up with the ghost of Severus Snape hanging around on Earth. She also needed to do this for herself. The fact that he was dead made it easier, but she knew she would have had to do it either way.

She bent down and placed her fingers on the corner of the polished stone.

"I forgive you," she whispered.

She waited a short while, maybe to see if anything would happen. If this had been a movie, the last rays of the setting sun would have broken through the clouds at this point and suffused her in their loving warmth. At the very least, a dove might have landed in front of her, then took off again.

Nothing. The sky remained dark and silent, and no wildlife appeared with messages of appeasement from beyond.

Hermione looked out across the lake. The water was leaden and oily, the surface dimpled with spikey ripples driven by the brisk breeze. On the far side was the forest, looming dark and unfathomable. She stood up and looked around. There were still clusters of robed figures dotting the lawn up toward the castle. She stepped back over the rope, and headed toward them.

She had a life to live.


End file.
